A is For
by RobinRocks
Summary: Alfie. Which Arthur totally called him last night. And thus begins Alfred's quest to get him to say it again. USUK. COMPLETE.
1. The

A. The first letter of both _the_ alphabet and the actual _word_ 'alphabet'. What an excellent letter it is. Think of how many great words begin with it. So it's probably a really lame testament to my status as a student of English Literature (and American Studies, which, incidentally, begins with the letter 'A'), but... A is my favourite letter. Ha, that's how cool I am. YEAH.

Anyway, 'A' is for many things; conveniently, it is for both **Alfred** and **Arthur**, who, conveniently, have human names starting with the same letter. And, conveniently, therein was my starting point. Trufax.

A is also for **August** – the nearest of the only two months of the year beginning with 'A', in fact, and so why I chose to begin posting this fic now despite the fact that it's set in October (the autumn, incidentally, lololololol).

A is also for **alliteration** – which is, for anyone who isn't familiar with the term, the literary technique of stringing together several words beginning with the same letter (although not necessarily 'A'). Lame as it may be to have a favourite letter, I take this a step further; alliteration is by far my favourite literary technique and, given the theme of a recurring letter, there is going to be a lot of it in this fic in addition to a deliberate concentration of words beginning with 'A'. Just a fair warning.

A note on the structure of this fanfic: This is my first "multi-chaptered" _Hetalia_ story, called this way for two reasons. **One:** It wasn't originally meant to be a one-shot that just got too monstrously long to be contained by one single chapter like _O America_ or _Pater Noster_. **Two:** It follows a deliberate, ongoing narrative set over the course of a few days instead of being like every single of my other _Hetalia_ fics and flitting around different historical events and settings.

Each chapter is broken into three short "segments", each headed with a word beginning with 'A' relevant to the section. The fic will have eight chapters in total; whilst the narrative is structured in third-person, the first four chapters/half will focus on Alfred and follow his perspective whilst the latter half will focus on Arthur.

As an aside (three 'A's in a row!), this fic is set in post-war Great Britain in **1954**. So, you know, watch out for Alfred's occasional 50s slang words. XD Additionally, despite the use of the character's human names, this is not an AU – it's canon, more or less, but their country names will not appear very often because this fic is more about their personal relationship and not (for once) about their history/abusiveness/childhood trauma.

Lastly, the M rating: Less for the reasonably-mild yaoi scene straight off the bat in this chapter and more for one very, very naughty word courtesy of dear Francis. ;)

A is For…

**[Alfie]**

"You… you're sensitive t-tonight."

Alfred panted it down close to Arthur's ear, pausing long enough to give him a chaste, swift kiss on the cheek; half-expecting to get a shove back for his trouble, a slap to the shoulder, an angry hiss that he _wasn't_ sensitive tonight, thankyou very much—

Instead Arthur arched upwards, pressing flush against him, arms tangling tighter still about Alfred's neck; his shoulders sloped up and his head fell back and his mouth opened in something that was maybe meant to be a moan but was instead given life as little more than a strangled gasp. This was, in fact, testament to Alfred's observation – Arthur was usually more vocal than this, and that wasn't just limited to groans and shrieks. He was perfectly capable of giving an entire lecture about something completely unrelated to what they were doing while they were doing it – Shakespeare or Wordsworth or the fact that Alfred had been wearing the same shirt for four days. Oh, and he complained. A _lot_. This position was hurting his back, that position didn't feel as good, Alfred was wearing far too much cologne—

But tonight he was quiet; or without anything to say, at least. He'd been somewhat subdued all evening, in fact, and it had been difficult to talk him into bed – Alfred had had to literally pry the book out of his hands and use the not-so-subtle sledgehammer ultimatum come-on ("I want you. Right now.") to inform Arthur that his casual statements of "Perhaps later" and "Let me just finish this chapter" weren't going to cut it tonight. Of course he'd flushed and gotten flustered and Alfred had practically carried him up the stairs and then he'd been sulky for the first five minutes or so but then he'd settled and things had been fine. _Finer_ than fine. _Too_ fine.

And it was odd.

Not that their sex was bad or that they didn't enjoy it – it just wasn't usually this sickeningly perfect. Arthur didn't cling and arch and gasp because it just wasn't in his nature to behave like that even at a time like this – on the contrary, he was usually fairly aggressive, biting and digging in his nails to leave marks that took days to go away, often high up on Alfred's neck and jaw where he couldn't hide them. Seeing him this quiet, this gentle, was bewildering.

Alfred leaned down, pushing the bend of Arthur's back flat again so that he was against the mattress, and kissed him on the forehead; he could feel the flail of his legs behind him, the now-and-then bump of his knees, every tremble and quiver and shudder. He felt the buck of his chest and the clench of his stomach and the deep exhale of his breath – but most of all he felt the yielding of Arthur's body, the absolute acceptance of Alfred's dominance when he didn't struggle against being pushed down again.

Alfred moved his mouth down and caught Arthur's in a kiss and wrapped his arms around him, holding him as tightly as he could, Arthur still clinging around his neck; oh, he was close, he was so close, feeling that his every thrust went deeper than ever before, that he was hitting places within Arthur that didn't even _exist_, things like his fairies that were simply too beautiful, too perfect, to possibly be real in so ugly and unkind a world—

Fanciful thoughts – sort of stupid – but the mere suggestion that no-one else had ever seen or felt or experienced Arthur this closely, this deeply, before, no-one other than himself, was enough to make him let go utterly. He rode his orgasm into Arthur completely, feeling that he was becoming more and more undone with every short moment of it – as though he would break at the slightest touch by the time Arthur shuddered to a standstill in his arms and his stomach was suddenly soaked and there was silence.

Arthur took Alfred's face in his hands and panted, whispered, something that sounded very much like "Alfie, Alfie, I love you", so quietly Alfred thought that maybe he had merely imagined it; and then Arthur kissed him and nothing else mattered.

**[Artie]**

"Artie?"

No answer. Alfred propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at him, worriedly checking to see that he hadn't crushed him. Ah – he was fine. His eyes were closed but he was definitely breathing. Asleep, then?

"Artie? Are you awake? _Hey_! Artie!"

"My name is _Arthur_."

Acting. Alfred grinned and rolled off him.

"Well then, _Arthur_, don't ignore me when I'm talking to you and pretend to be asleep. It's seriously uncool, _Arthur_." Alfred paused. "Hey, do I have to emphasise your name like this all the time, _Arthur_?"

"Don't be so obnoxious," Arthur muttered blackly; he sat up. "And please refrain from calling me by that awful shortened… _colloquialism_."

"A what now?" Alfred blinked at him.

"Nothing. Never mind. Just don't call me "Artie" again." Arthur found his pyjamas folded under his pillow and started to pull them on; they were a rather dull, plain shade of green, the colour lacking the authoritive kick of his military uniform or the vibrant gleam of his eyes.

"Ugh, why do you always have to kill the mood by putting on jammies?" Alfred sighed, propping his chin on one hand and watching him.

"I rather think that you calling them "jammies" kills the mood more than the garments themselves do, Alfred," Arthur said curtly. "Colloquialisms again, you see."

"Nuh-uh," Alfred insisted. "You're totally, absolutely, _unquestionably_ the one killing the mood with your weird old man... _thing_ of not being comfortable sleeping naked and completely ruining the whole concept of sexy after-sex maybe-leading-to-more-sex snuggling." He stuck out his tongue with an air of finality. "So _there_."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"If you say so," he sighed. "Incidentally, all this proves is that you didn't learn anything in the army. It's always best to be prepared – and wearing at least _something_ whilst sleeping is a valuable survival skill."

"Sur—_what_? Those... _those_ are not a "survival skill"!" Alfred pointed very animatedly, somewhat outraged, at the pyjamas – the fuel of his ire.

Arthur merely gave a snort.

"It would benefit you to at least put on some underwear," he said coolly.

Alfred wriggled deliberately.

"Not gonna," he replied simply.

"I can see that," Arthur sighed. He lay down again and turned over, presenting Alfred with his back as he settled under the sheets. "Night then, love."

There was a long moment of silence. Clearly Arthur just intended to go to sleep. Alfred lay and stared at his back for a while, examining every detail he could see by the dim light of the bedside lamp; the way Arthur was lying made him look oddly curvy beneath the covers, a peculiar optical illusion when Alfred knew that he was small and flat and narrow, having just seen and felt and experienced all of him.

The sex had been amazing – perhaps some of the best they'd ever had in all of the twelve years they had been together – but Arthur had been strange during it and he'd been strange before it and he was being strange now, Alfred thought. Of course Arthur was _always_ a little bit odd, somewhat eccentric at times, but Alfred knew all of his oddities very well because he'd known him for centuries and so his particular peculiarities were, in Alfred's eyes, normal in Arthur-Land (or just _England_, come to think of it). This was different. Arthur was (sometimes sadly) a remarkably good actor and Alfred, often oblivious, had to admit that sometimes he misread his behaviour because he wasn't always terribly perceptive, but tonight...

Alfred couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur seemed unhappy.

He leaned over to him and kissed him behind his ear, breathing in the fragrance of clean, plain, unscented soap on his blonde hair.

"Artie—"

"_Arthur_."

"Yeah, fine, _Arthur_." Alfred rubbed at Arthur's shoulder through his awful green pyjama shirt. "Are you... um, you're alright, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm alright." Arthur reached up and patted Alfred's hand. "Don't fuss now, Alfred. It's late."

Acting. Alfred frowned but decided not to push. Prying only ever served to make Arthur close up even more determinedly. Besides, maybe it was nothing. Arthur was moody sometimes and it was as simple as that. Perhaps he would be happier in the morning once he'd slept (provided his backside wasn't aching tomorrow and he consequently yelled at Alfred for being too enthusiastic).

"Can we cuddle?" Alfred asked, nipping at Arthur's ear.

"If you stop doing that immediately and if you put on some knickers, yes, we _may_ cuddle."

"Fine, fine." Alfred fished around for his underwear, found them tangled up with his slacks and pulled them on one-handed. "There, I'm decent, you prude."

"I am not a prude – I am tactical. Now, if you are so inclined to have some strange dream involving those dreadful hamburgers you love so much which just so happens to make you ejaculate in your sleep that I, frankly, do not even want to know the details of, your own undergarments will take the damage and my pyjamas will be spared the indignity."

Alfred scowled as he got under the covers.

"That happened like one time!" he protested.

"One time is one time too many," Arthur said flatly. "Now go to sleep."

Alfred snorted.

"You're lucky I put up with you," he said dryly, working one arm underneath Arthur and dragging him towards him. "And you said we could cuddle so come here."

He pulled Arthur close, pressing his face between his shoulder blades; to his dismay, he noticed that Arthur was tense in his grasp, rigid and defensive as though he didn't want to be touched.

"Arthur—" Alfred began in a gentler voice.

"I'm alright, Alfred." Arthur headed him off quickly, sounding somewhat exasperated, and wriggled in Alfred's arms enough to turn over and face him, relaxing into a comfortable position against his chest. "You needn't worry yourself."

"But..." Alfred trailed off as Arthur kissed him on the tip of the nose and then settled properly, closing his eyes.

"Goodnight," Arthur said. "Oh, and you're still wearing your glasses. Don't forget to take them off."

So there was really nothing else to say. Alfred sighed inwardly, removed his glasses and reached over to put them on the night-stand, turning off the lamp as he did so. He curled around Arthur, guarding him with his embrace, not satisfied until they were tangled together as closely as veins of ivy, old and thick and jealous.

"I love you, Artie," Alfred sighed, his chin on the crown of Arthur's gold head.

No answer. He couldn't be asleep already. He had to be acting.

Again.

**[Albion]**

Arthur had always hated the practice of shortening things to either nicknames or initials or... what was it he had called them? Something about cauliflower? No, that wasn't right... Well, Alfred didn't remember the long fancy word but he _did_ remember that Arthur had always been awkward about abbreviations and the like.

For example, it was 'William Shakespeare', not 'Bill' or 'Old Shakey'; the 'First and Second World Wars' as opposed to 'WWI and WWII'; that his own official title, if you please, was in fact 'The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland' and not 'UK' (and, incidentally, that Alfred was a lazy arse for constantly signing things simply 'USA' instead of 'The United States of America'; which was all fine for Arthur to say when _he_ personally had about six names and titles to pick from on an official level, one for practically every letter of the alphabet, Albion, Britannia, and not that he was sure that Arthur had a title beginning with 'C' but he _had_ heard Francis once call him a "complete cunt"...).

The point was that Arthur didn't like shortened nicknames so, when dealing with him, you picked either 'Arthur', 'England', 'Britain' or 'United Kingdom' and you didn't have a problem with him; his eye tended to twitch at 'UK', he scowled at 'Artie' and he flat-out punched Alfred in the face the one time he tried 'Iggy' after sitting in on an entire conversation between Arthur and Kiku which had, actually, mostly been about tea and the different species of butterfly about at this time of year – it had been several years ago now, long before the war, but Alfred could still feel that fist near-splintering his cheekbone to this day.

Therefore, by default, Arthur also didn't _use_ shortened nicknames. He never called Matthew 'Matt', he never called Gilbert 'Gil' and he _never_ called Alfred 'Alfie'.

And yet he had last night – or had Alfred imagined it? It had been so quiet and breathless, after all, and Alfred himself hadn't been exactly in his right mind at the time – or in his mind at all, come to think of it. Perhaps Arthur had been trying to say 'Alfred' but he'd been so short of breath that he hadn't been able to finish the name's last syllable properly and it had only _sounded_ like 'Alfie'.

Alfred huffed a sigh. It was stupid, but... he hoped that he hadn't misheard, that it hadn't been a mistake, that Arthur had truly meant to call him 'Alfie'. It was insignificant, really, but Alfred had always felt that shortening someone's name like that was a sign that you knew them, a gesture of friendship and closeness, that you were so utterly comfortable with them that the walls of formality fell away and they didn't need to define themselves with their full name in front of you because, really, they were a part of your existence and you were a part of theirs. That was why Alfred always chanced calling Arthur 'Artie' despite knowing that he didn't like it—

And, despite knowing that there was no chance of it ever happening, why he'd always hoped that maybe one day Arthur would relax enough, be comfortable enough, to call _him_ 'Alfie'. Or 'Al', but maybe that was going a bit far.

Of course, Arthur didn't understand this Alfred F. Jones School of Thought© high concept and merely bellyached that he had a _name_ and if Alfred would please _use_ it then that would be _lovely_ – and by that point Alfred was either too irritated or too distracted by something else to try and explain it to him.

Still... he wondered. He wondered if he'd heard correctly.

Arthur had gotten away from him during the night and Alfred rolled onto his back and felt about blindly for him, fingers finding the slope of his side and feeling him shift irritably in his sleep at the prodding sensation. Alfred opened his eyes and turned onto his side, finding himself face-to-face with Arthur, who was still sound asleep with something of a frown on his face, his thick eyebrows knotted together as though he was worried – or grumpy.

Typical Arthur, grouchy even in his sleep. It was a shame he seemed to scowl all the time; his smile, his real smile, was a rare and lovely breed (although he was quick to snap his pout back on if he caught Alfred admiring it). Alfred remembered seeing it the day they'd won the war – not his victorious smirk, not his dry grin, not his sarcastic plastered-on beam but his true, relieved, happy smile, his hand warm in the American's after so long spent around cold guns.

That war. They had been together since that war – since 1942. Of course Alfred had always _loved_ him but not like this, never like this, never so intensely and devotedly and admiringly as he had come to do so against the backdrop of the worst war the world had ever seen. He had only ever seen him fight selfish wars before then, wars to expand the scope of his Never-Setting-Sun Empire, wars of pride to defend his claims of ownership of others, Canada, China, America himself; but in _that_ war Arthur had suddenly emerged from the collapsed corpse of Europe as Germany crushed it underfoot as unselfish and noble, standing up to Ludwig alone long after Francis surrendered and willing to give up his Empire in return for victory. All those names, those splendid names and history's millstones, those distinguished titles like 'Albion' and 'Britannia', had meant nothing to him then. Alfred had fallen in love with Arthur Kirkland in 1942 as they fought side-by-side because he'd known then that he hadn't been looking at an Empire, at a nation driven by a desire to protect only his own name (whichever of them he wished to protect).

He had been looking at a soldier – another man amongst all of his men, a man ready to give his life if that was what Europe's freedom cost.

_That_ was the man asleep next to him now.

Alfred smiled.

"Hey, Artie." He leaned over and shook Arthur awake – or, at least, roused him to semi-wakefulness, seeing the dim glimmer of green as he slitted his eyes open enough to constitute a reasonable excuse to scowl at Alfred. "Artie?"

"Shove off," Arthur grumbled, pulling the covers over his head. "And my name is _Arthur_," he added after a moment, his voice muffled through the covers.

"Yeah, yeah, don't I know it," Alfred agreed cheerfully. "Just letting you know I'm gonna go take a shower, baby."

He heard Arthur give a disgusted groan beneath the sheets – probably at his use of the term 'baby', which Arthur hated more than he hated 'Artie' (although perhaps not as much as 'Iggy') and blamed the 50s for wholeheartedly.

"Unless you wanna come join me?" Alfred suggested teasingly, poking at him.

"I said shove off," Arthur muttered darkly; there was some movement beneath the sheets and Alfred guessed that Arthur was trying to swipe at him. He missed, of course, and Alfred waited for another response – but Arthur fell still again, probably going back to sleep.

Alfred shrugged, deciding to leave him alone for now – it was no fun teasing him if he was too sleepy to get properly annoyed – and went to fetch a towel before heading to the bathroom to shower. It was a strange thing, but waking up and (perhaps falsely) remembering that Arthur had done a totally un-Arthur-like thing and called him 'Alfie' last night suddenly made Alfred extremely determined to get him to say it again (or perhaps at all). Of course, if it _had_ happened, Arthur would undoubtedly deny it and then make a point of being on his guard to ensure that he _didn't_ ever say it.

No, this demanded a little more strategy. Alfred tipped his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the stream of hot water on his face as he thought. He was good at this sort of thing, if he did say so himself. 1942 – _that_ had required a strategy. He had vowed to make Arthur his before the year was out – and he _had_ ultimately succeeded, of course, because the hero always wins – but it had needed the strategy of not being as much of a dick towards Arthur as he was towards the others (which had been difficult because Arthur was perfectly capable of being a dick himself at times) so that he conditioned Arthur into accepting his niceness (which totally hadn't been flirting) so that he didn't immediately think he was joking when he eventually got the balls to tell him that he liked him. It had been tough going at times – Alfred simply seemed to possess an absolute talent for making Arthur want to strangle him – but it had been worth the effort in the end. Arthur hadn't laughed in his face or accused him of lying or, most importantly, turned him down. Twelve years later and he was in Arthur's shower using all his stuff.

Result.

And so... perhaps the employment of the same strategy was in order. Back in the war there hadn't been much room for blatant displays of affection in the form of presents and dining out and long walks taken hand-in-hand – really, not being as much of a dick had been the best he could do, given the circumstances – but now he was free to utterly overwhelm Arthur, who was actually a pretty hopeless romantic underneath his Stiff Upper Lip, with that sort of stuff until 'Alfie' was the only thing he _could_ say.

Yes, this was a totally flawless strategy for Plan Get-Him-To-Call-Me-Alfie:

Acquire Arthur's absolute adoration.

* * *

YAYZ FIRST CHAPTER!11!11!1

Hope you enjoyed it. This fic is basically about Alfred's henceforth attempts to trick Arthur into calling him 'Alfie'. We shall see how well this goes for him given that his "opponent" is smarter than he is. XD

I think I have mentioned this before in some other fic, but 'Albion' is a very old name for England/Britain – we're talking pre-Medieval here, although it was still sometimes used after that.

**Iggy **– I totally understand why _fans_ call England this. It's short for 'Igirisu' and it's kind of cute (you know, when you aren't remembering that Iggy Pop exists). However, despite the original-Japanese-language of _Hetalia_ itself, I honestly see NO REASON for the fandom phenomenon of America calling England 'Iggy' in fanfics, etc. Even if he _is_ prone to fanbrat Japanese in fics set in the modern day, I don't think America would overlook _his own language_ – the one that he shares with England, incidentally – to call England 'Iggy' every two sentences (and it really does tend to be that often). And, even if America _did_ pick up 'Iggy' from Japan in modern-day fics, there is still NO WAY he would call his ally a nickname derived from the language of his enemy during the 1940s – it would be like America calling everyone "Comrade" during the Cold War.

Anyway, my point is, America got punched in the face by England for trying it once in this fic. Consider it a universal punishment. XD

This fic will be updated weekly, I think. Please come back to witness the initiation of Alfred's oh-so-brilliant plan! :)

RobinRocks xXx


	2. First

And we're off to an absolutely amazingly awesome start (lololololol)!

In all seriousness, you guys have all descended upon this! I really didn't expect it to be so popular already! Thankyou so much for all your reviews and I'm glad you all enjoyed Chapter One so much! Hope the rest of the fic lives up to your expectations!

It's been less than a week since I posted the first chapter, but since there is no day beginning with 'A', I figured I'd just make a hat-trick of my favourites and post this on Fridays from now on. Get that Friday feeling and all that. =)

Thankyou to: **JesusofSuburbia2o2o, Genki-angel-chan, randompuddle, yellowrose87, Prestidigitations, OrangePlum, Sexykill69, Sylence, Aiyaa, Tamer Lorika, cantlogin **(which I assume isn't your actual pen-name)**, SilverMoonPhantom, Kang Jae Gyu, Anastasya Debbie, The Anonymous Innocent Blusher, Scorpling, Miss Misa Minnow, Bistre Melancholia, shake-it-buddy, Wizzabeff, Picadillo, LostDonut, rae1112, Anime18Emo **and **chetzahime**!

And now, onwards to the commencement of Alfred's master plan! You can do it, Alfred!

...Or not, as the case may be. XD

A is For…

**[Awesome]**

Alfred came bounding back from the bathroom with a bounce in his step and a bubble in his chest; this plan was foolproof, surely. Despite his grouchiness and all-round healthy cynicism, Arthur was actually fairly easy to butter up if you knew which buttons to press – and Alfred had always been very good at getting under his skin. Arthur was the master of ignoring people he wasn't interested in (which was most of the world these days) but he could never ignore Alfred.

No-one could ignore Alfred. He was much too awesome to not be paid attention to.

'Awesome' being the key word here. Alfred was going to be _so_ awesomely-awesome to Arthur that Arthur would be setting up an altar to worship his awesomeness by the end of the week.

(Besides, he had to admit that doing something nice for Arthur every now and then usually reaped benefits by the boatload – because he was easy to butter up if you knew which buttons to press, after all.)

And so, to Step One: Pry Arthur out of bed and bowl him over with the best breakfast he'd ever had.

He pulled on jeans and a clean shirt, fastening only four of the buttons, and put his glasses back on before beginning his excavation, digging under the covers until he found Arthur, who had fallen asleep again. He put his arms around his back and pulled him upright, the covers falling away from them both as he did so, and held him in a sitting position as gravity gradually woke him.

"Hi," Alfred greeted the smaller man cheerfully as he opened his green eyes a second time.

Arthur merely gave a tired sigh, his eyes closing again, and flopped bonelessly against Alfred's chest.

"Why must you be such a nuisance?" he asked in a low voice.

"I am not a nuisance!" Alfred protested. "I'm awesome, remember?"

"An awesome pain in the arse." Arthur exhaled deeply, his cheek against Alfred's shoulder. "At least you showered this morning."

"Yeah! Can you smell how squeaky-clean I am?"

"If by that you mean can I smell _my_ soap on you, then yes, I can," Arthur replied curtly. "But, more importantly, you're dripping water on my neck. You never dry your hair properly."

Alfred shook his head, making Arthur wince and recoil, and grinned again.

"It's fine, it'll dry," he said. "_Soooo_... are you gonna get up?"

"Well, it doesn't look as though you're going to give me a moment's peace, so I suppose so." Arthur pushed back from Alfred, loosening himself from his grip. "Why you are incapable of getting your own breakfast is beyond me—"

"Oh," Alfred cut in quickly, ensuring that his awesome plan wasn't derailed, "I _am_ going to make breakfast, Artie! I'm going to make you the most awesome breakfast you've ever eaten... uh, if you'll let me use the kitchen, that is."

He looked at Arthur pleadingly, batting his eyelashes; Arthur, who firmly believed that his guest shouldn't be put upon to cater for them and insisted on cooking every night even though _Alfred_ (strangely, he felt) offered to do it every night, gave a disgusted roll of his eyes.

"Alright," he sighed. "If you insist. But I'm not eating anything you've fried in butter."

"Fine, fine." Alfred kissed him on the forehead and jumped back off the bed. "You go doll yourself up, baby, and I'll get started on that breakfast!"

"Doll myself up? Alfred, I am not a girl," Arthur said in a cold voice.

"_I_ know." Alfred winked at him and left the bedroom without another word, taking the stairs three at a time and hearing Arthur yell after him not to do so because he was going to put a hole in them.

He pretended not to have heard him as he went down the hall to the kitchen, going straight to the cupboards to see what Arthur actually _had_ in the house.

Not a lot, really. Rats. Alfred had totally forgotten that Britain still imposed rationing – Arthur hadn't come out too well financially from that war and was still suffering from the repercussions of the conflict even nine years after it had ended. Alfred had envisioned stacks of pancakes with maple syrup and bacon and sausages and ham and waffles and French toast and tomatoes and eggs, a proper home-style American breakfast—

Which totally just wasn't going to happen with three eggs, two tomatoes, a few leftover sausages from dinner last night and four strips of bacon. He had a lot of bread, biscuits and potatoes to work with; but he sighed irritably, disappointed. Maybe Arthur would get mad at him, too, for using everything for just breakfast when rationing stretched everything so thinly...

"Hey, Arthur!" Alfred called up the stairs, standing at the bottom of them. "Can I use these eggs?"

No answer. The bathroom door was shut and Alfred could hear the roar of the shower beyond it. He sighed and shrugged. Well, he'd tried.

He decided to use the eggs anyway.

When Arthur joined him in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, immaculate in pressed slacks and a shirt and a grey tie with a brown waistcoat, Alfred felt that he managed to whip up a decent breakfast, if not as awesomely-awesome as he'd envisioned. He had found some flour and sugar and used the eggs to make pancake batter – having to forgo the fried eggs and waffles and French toast in the process. He'd also managed to locate some mushrooms and had fried them with the tomatoes and bacon in another pan, slicing up a few potatoes for hash browns as he kept an eye on them.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!" he chirped over his shoulder. "Hope you're hungry!"

"I might have known you'd leave my cupboards bare," Arthur sighed, sinking into a chair at the table. He glanced about. "I see you made tea."

"Anything for you, Artie." Alfred tipped the bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes out onto a plate and tossed his hash browns into the spitting pan instead.

"Arthur," Arthur corrected – predictably – as he pulled the teapot towards himself and lifted the lid to examine Alfred's effort. "I expect it's bloody awful."

"Probably," Alfred agreed cheerily, bringing the plate to the table and setting it down next to another one already stacked with toast. "Pancakes are just coming and the hash browns will be about five minutes."

"Mm." Arthur poured himself some tea and raised the dainty cup to his mouth, taking a sip.

"Is it awful?" Alfred asked, not anxious about the answer because he knew Arthur would lie and say it was bad even if it wasn't.

"Of course it is," Arthur replied, not meeting Alfred's gaze – which said enough.

Alfred grinned and leaned down towards him.

"Do I get a thankyou kiss?" he teased.

"Bugger off."

Alfred laughed and went to get the pancakes.

He had anticipated Arthur picking at his food and complaining just be antagonistic and so was pleasantly surprised that he ate without much of a fuss; although he was probably hungry, Alfred reasoned. Still wrapped up in rationing, Arthur tended to not eat very much, broken into a routine of satisfying his hunger just enough and stretching things that were in short supply.

Contrarily, Alfred found it difficult to remember what rationing was even like. The United States had experienced an economic boom in the aftermath of the war and rationing had gone out of the window before 1945 had been over. Still, Arthur simply didn't accept pity and so all Alfred could do was try and shovel a little bit more food down him every now and then.

"You look like you needed that," Alfred mused over the last of his cooling coffee, watching Arthur spear his last mushroom with his fork and put it in his mouth.

"Mm." Arthur swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, eying the grease on it warily when he folded it and put it back on the table again. "Although I think you made too much. I just want to go back to sleep now."

"Aww, and I have such an awesome day planned for us, too," Alfred pouted mockingly.

Arthur, however, looked at him tiredly.

"Alfred, I can't entertain you today, I'm afraid," he said. "I have a lot of work to do."

Alfred's heart sank.

"But..." He trailed off when he saw Arthur shaking his head.

"Alfred, I'm sorry," he said, and he _did_ sound apologetic. He got up and took both of their plates and cutlery, pausing long enough at Alfred's side to give him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "But I have a meeting on Friday and it's about the budget – I told you, we want to try and get rid of rationing by the end of the year and it's very important and I have a lot to do for it... You _knew_ about the meeting, remember?"

"I forgot about it," Alfred said gloomily, resting his chin on his hands as he watched Arthur go to the sink with the plates. "It's only Sunday, though! Couldn't you just—"

"I haven't done a thing for it yet," Arthur interrupted expressionlessly, filling up the sink with hot water to do the washing up.

"That's not like you."

"I've had a lot of other work to do – and don't forget that we both have that Former Allied Powers thing on Wednesday, too. Oh, and I've had you here, of course. I suppose you can't help distracting me but you do nonetheless."

"Oh. Sorry." Alfred rose himself and came over to the sink.

"Don't be," Arthur said mildly. "I invited you here, after all. But please understand that I can't spare the time for your "awesome day" at the moment. I _am_ sorry."

"It's fine, no worries." Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist and gave him a quick, reassuring squeeze. "Hey, look, if you have so much work to do, I can do the washing up."

"This is my house—"

"And I made the mess." Alfred nudged at him. "Go on, scoot. I've got it."

"Alright, alright." Arthur backed down and let Alfred take his place at the sink; folding his arms, he stood and watched him for a moment, his head on one side.

"What?" Alfred asked, reaching for the pans to put them in the sink too.

"You're being strangely... helpful," Arthur said; his tone was suspicious but he was smirking. "What are you after, eh?"

"Huh?" Alfred didn't meet his gaze, scrubbing at the plates distractedly. Damn Arthur – he was dreadfully perceptive at times, maybe because he devoured Conan Doyle and Christie as a staple of his reading regime. "I'm not after anything, Artie. I'm just trying to help you out – as a thanks for putting up with me for two weeks, I swear!"

"Hmm." Arthur didn't sound convinced; but he leaned in and gave Alfred another little kiss on the cheek. "Alright, if you say so. I'm going to my study, then. Thankyou for breakfast." He started out of the kitchen. "Oh," he added over his shoulder, "and my name is—"

"_Arthur_," Alfred finished in a high-pitched imitation of him. "Yeah, yeah, yadda-yadda." He glanced over his shoulder again just in time to see Arthur shake his head at him as he left.

Well, damn. Alfred sighed deeply and looked up at the ceiling as he rubbed absently at one of the pans with the dishrag. There went Steps Two, Three and Four of his master plan. He'd been plotting to take Arthur out for the day, finishing up the evening with a nice meal somewhere – since the war had ended, Arthur didn't get out much, instead always holed up at home working on getting his country back in order. Whenever he did go out it was to a meeting or to the shop to buy food so that he didn't starve to death while holed up at home – he also probably went to the library, Alfred was willing to bet, but that was about it.

Of course, almost all of Europe was in the same boat as him, but Alfred wondered if Arthur minded – if he didn't feel lonely and resentful and cooped-up. After all, the war had brought him crashing down from Empiredom; Arthur had been used to globetrotting before that, staking Union Jacks here, there and everywhere as claims for his kingdom. His current state of affairs was the result of his sacrifices but it still had to be frustrating for him, Alfred thought. Aside from Francis, Alfred was the only visitor Arthur got on a regular basis and really... Arthur himself might argue about where Francis stood but Alfred felt that the reality was that he and Francis were Arthur's only friends. He had once been fairly close with both Ludwig and Kiku but the war(s) had blown both of those friendships out of the water and Arthur himself had admitted to (accidentally) forgetting about Matthew's existence more than once.

The point was that he'd wanted Arthur to enjoy himself today, to be able to forget his humdrum, boring post-war world and let loose a little; but Arthur, as usual, was driven by duty and apparently wasn't about to be swayed by Alfred's begging.

Still... Alfred looked down at the sink. The breakfast hadn't gone over too badly. Arthur had even _thanked_ him – which was a vast compliment in Arthur-speak.

He still hadn't called him 'Alfie', but it seemed that all had not been in vain. Even though Arthur's schedule had thrown a spanner in the works, Alfred was nonetheless confident that he could still come out on top of all this.

Plan A simply needed adjusting.

**[American]**

"Arthur?" Alfred nudged open the study door with his elbow, carefully balancing the teacup as he stepped into the room. "I made you some tea."

"Hm?" Arthur didn't look up from his typewriter, brow furrowed in concentration as he _clacked_ away on the keys. "Ah, yes... thankyou, Alfred." The typewriter _dinged_ and Arthur reached up with a practiced motion to push the carriage back into place; in the same movement he pointed to a tiny space of the desk not occupied by documents or books. "If you could put it there, that would be lovely."

Alfred brought the cup to the desk and put it down in the designated spot, the saucer only just fitting.

"How's it going?" he asked, moving around the desk to look at what Arthur was typing – some boring list of figures, incidentally.

"Slowly," Arthur replied, "and excruciatingly."

"That bad, huh?"

"I'm frightful with this new technology," Arthur said absently.

"Typewriters aren't new," Alfred pointed out; he put his hands on Arthur's shoulders and rubbed at them. "You sit so stiffly – you're all tense."

"Alfred, don't do that, I'm going to make a mistake." Arthur shrugged him off even as he said it. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but—"

"Ah, it's fine, I didn't come in here to pester you," Alfred cut in breezily. "I want to go buy some stuff for dinner. Can I use your ration book?"

"Alright, but don't buy anything ridiculous. Those coupons need to last me until the end of October."

"No prob – it's not like you can buy anything ridiculous over here anyway. A _banana_ is exotic to you guys."

"Get _out_ before your idiotic prattling makes me type something wrongly," Arthur said desperately, hunching lower over his typewriter.

"I'm going, I'm going." Alfred blew him a kiss. "Ration book is in the drawer of your bedside table, right?"

"Yes."

Arthur didn't say anything else and Alfred knew he'd clawed every scrap of conversation he was going to get out of him; he left the study, closing the door quietly behind him. From behind it, as he made his way down the hall to the bedroom, he heard Arthur curse "Bollocks!" and then some rather loud rummaging.

He'd made a mistake.

Making sure not to snort with laugher so loudly that Arthur would hear him and come storming out of the study to tell him to shut his gob (or some other weird and wacky Britishism), Alfred ducked into the bedroom and went to Arthur's side of the bed, winching open the drawer and finding the little card-covered ration book sitting right at the top; he pocketed it and was about to close the drawer again when something square and white at the bottom of it caught his eye.

A very quick flash of guilt made him hesitate, thinking that he probably shouldn't go rifling through Arthur's things; but then he decided that Arthur had given him permission to go into the drawer in the first place and so there probably wasn't anything embarrassing or incriminating in it anyway. He hooked his nail under the square and lifted it, taking it between his thumb and forefinger as he brought it out of the drawer and turned it over.

It was a photograph. Not an old one, really – in fact, he could pinpoint the exact date. 9th August, 1945. The V-J Day celebrations in Times Square, New York City. It was a small square snap, black and white, and it was the six of them together: himself, Arthur, Matthew, Francis, Yao and Ivan. Alfred noted that he was the furthest forward, slap-bang in the middle (because he was the hero, of course), with one arm around Arthur's waist and the other slung more boisterously around Matthew's neck and a huge grin on his face. Francis had procured a bottle of champagne and was hanging off Matthew from the other side, the poor Canadian wilting between the combined weight on him; Yao had that typical wise, world-weary smile of his on his feminine face, as though he was enjoying the victory but didn't expect the peace to last long; Ivan was looking rather sour, his smile forced and his fists clenched stiffly at his sides. And Arthur...

He looked so tired. He was practically leaning on Alfred (who remembered pulling him in close for that photo and noting, even then, that he hadn't resisted Alfred's arm around him), although still holding himself with that regal air of his, still with the straight spine of a soldier and a haughty veil on his eyes that perhaps only Alfred had ever seen behind. His smile, though – _that_ was his real smile, captured forever by a camera that day.

It had been such a thoroughly-American victory parade, a celebration of the American-made technology which had forced Kiku and his people to their knees and won the war; Lady Liberty had stood in Times Square and the American anthem had played and there had been apple pie; Coca-Cola and cake and confetti in red, white and blue (Alfred's colours – and Arthur's and Francis' and Ivan's, too, although Ivan wouldn't smile at all once the camera was gone).

He looked at it frozen in black and white and remembered it in full colour; the all-day street party of it, the mothers and sisters and wives and lovers embracing their sailors and soldiers, Victory-in-Europe all over again but American, all-American and all-Allied. He remembered Ivan sulking and Francis gathering himself a gaggle of giggling girl admirers and Matthew actually being noticed and...

He remembered that _he_ had pulled Arthur into the fountain and kissed him.

He smiled at the photo, happy that Arthur had kept it even if he hid it away, and carefully put it back exactly as he had found it. He didn't want Arthur to know that he had seen it – let him have his secrets, his little eccentricities.

Alfred knew that sometimes Arthur just didn't like to admit to being happy.

—

He dug out Arthur's wireless from the deep recesses of a cupboard and tuned it to a station playing an afternoon of Glenn Miller and his Army Air Force Band, whistling along as he made dinner. Arthur was still locked away upstairs like Rapunzel in her tower – truthfully Alfred had put on the wireless in part to drown out Arthur swearing loudly at his typewriter. By the time dinner was ready and Alfred went upstairs to fetch him, Arthur had apparently given up on the typewriter altogether and was writing – much more calmly – by hand, his handwriting fluid and decorative and presumably somewhat-therapeutic, perfect and pretty on the page.

The typewriter had been banished to the hall – Alfred had nearly tripped over it on his way to Arthur's office ("Infernal American contraption," Arthur had muttered blackly on their way past it to the stairs).

Incidentally, Arthur took one look at dinner and scowled.

"Alfred, this is a hamburger," he said scathingly.

"Yeah, but I made them totally from scratch!" Alfred replied blissfully through a mouthful of his own burger. "I bought beef from the butcher's and made the patties myself – and the bread is from the bakery and the lettuce and tomatoes are—"

"_Alfred_."

"What?" Alfred narrowed his eyes at him. "Look, I just went and bought everything. These are totally one hundred per cent British hamburgers!"

"There is _no such thing_ as a "British hamburger"," Arthur growled.

"Sure there is," Alfred said cheerfully, taking another bite of his. "And, since _you_ didn't make it, it's actually pretty damn good!" He wagged his finger in mock-strictness at Arthur. "Now you eat up, mister, or you don't get any apple pie!"

Arthur rolled his eyes at him but gave a sigh of defeat, getting himself a knife and fork to attack his burger with.

"Artie," Alfred began patiently, "you don't eat a burger with—"

"Shut up," Arthur interrupted acidly; and then, with a touch more fondness, added, "you American twat."

**[Alone]**

After dinner, Alfred left Arthur alone for as long as he could possibly manage, trying to give him the peace and quiet he needed to work; but eventually he reached breaking point, the wireless too loud in the silent house but the whole place too quiet without it, and sneaked upstairs to the study.

He knocked timidly, sincerely hoping that Arthur wouldn't just yell at him to go away through the door; after a long moment Arthur called to him to come in and he opened the door just enough to peek around it like a child.

Arthur was still at his desk, his chin resting on his hand as he read through a document; his hair was dishevelled, his sleeves were rolled up, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, his tie was loose around his open collar and, most of all, he looked as though he was going to keel forward onto the desk at any moment.

"What is it, Alfred?" he asked distractedly, not looking up from his reading.

"Artie, you look exhausted," Alfred said, derailed from saying anything else.

Arthur was too engrossed to either correct or even listen to him, not venturing a reply. Alfred pushed the door open a little wider and stepped into the room, glancing around.

Arthur's study was one of the nicest rooms in his house, presumably because he spent so much time in here, small enough to be cosy without seeming cramped or claustrophobic. The decor was unobtrusive, a deep red carpet and pale cream walls adorned with a few framed maps and documents of what appeared to be a fair age, their parchments yellowed and crisp behind the glass. The desk was carved oak, old-fashioned and ornate, with a matching chair covered with soft leather of a deep burgundy and bookshelves of a similar design, absolutely crammed with books of all kinds – subjects, colours, thicknesses; classics like Milton and Shakespeare, newer greats like Dickens and Wilde, poetry by Wordsworth and Coleridge and Chaucer, influential women like Austen and Woolf and men-of-now like Waugh and Orwell (and American books, too, Poe and Hawthorne and Melville and Fitzgerald).

Not a single one was untouched; every page turned with care as Arthur no doubt sat in here by the fire night after night after night, all alone and yet never with closer friends than these legacies to his language.

That was probably a very pleasant way to end the evening, following Oliver Twist's adventures through London's streets or retiring to the very edge of Wales with Wordsworth as he described the beauteous spine of Tintern Abbey's ruins or instead leaving for a purely-imagined land, the wondrous gardens of Kubla Khan's stately pleasure dome in Xanadu or the weird wonderland of Alice's dream; but right now Arthur was hunched miserably over his papers, visibly very tired from doing just that all day.

"Arthur," Alfred tried again, "why don't we go to bed? I know it's a little early but—"

"Alfred, I have work to do."

"I know that," Alfred argued, thinking that Arthur was really being very stubborn, "but if you go to bed now and get a good night's sleep, you can get up early tomorrow and work then!"

At last Arthur lowered his document, meeting Alfred's gaze.

"I'm trying to do as much of it as I can now so that tomorrow we can do whatever you had planned for today," he explained, sounding somewhat impatient.

Alfred immediately brightened.

"Really?" He practically skipped to the desk, leaning over it. "You mean it, no fooling?"

"Yes," Arthur sighed, smiling wearily at him. "Of course I shall still need Thursday to prepare even if I get most of it done today and so you are to leave me alone—"

"I will, I will!" Alfred promised. "I'll... I'll go hide in the closet! I'll hang out in Narnia with all your fairy friends!"

Arthur arched an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, well, if it keeps you out of my hair..." He flapped his hand at Alfred. "I also need peace now, if you please, so—"

"Actually..." Alfred straightened again, twisting his fingers together. "...I was wondering... if I could stay in here with you." He pointed at the fire. "I'll sit there. I'll be really quiet. I won't distract you, I promise!"

Arthur merely sighed and went back to his reading.

"Yes, well, read something, then," he said absently. "I'm sure there's something in here to interest even you."

Alfred went to the bookshelves and scanned them.

"Do you have any books about airplanes?" he asked.

"_Aeroplanes_ – and no."

Alfred huffed and scoured the shelves a moment longer before deciding on a leatherback edition of _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, flopping down on the thick rug in front of the fire with it (telling himself that he totally hadn't picked it because of Conan Doyle's Christian name). Flipping through it, dimly remembering the cases he had read before, years ago now, probably in _The Strand_ where they had first been published, he recalled something else, too.

"He believed in fairies, didn't he?" he asked, glancing up towards the desk, where _his_ Arthur was now writing again.

"Alfred," Arthur replied in a falsely-sweet voice, "forgive me, but I recall you saying that you weren't going to distract me."

"I'm just _saying_!" Alfred pressed. "Must be something about the name Arthur – and it's kooky that he wrote about this detective guy, you know, who used exact science and stuff to crack cases and he himself believed in things that don't even—"

"Alfred, the grave you are digging for yourself is getting horribly deep," Arthur said lightly. "I suggest you shut your trap."

"But I was just—"

"_Immediately_, my own dearest love."

Alfred quailed at his heavy sarcasm and took the suggestion to heart. Instead he flicked back to the start of the book and began with the first of the Holmes stories, _A Study in Scarlet_, falling quiet as he followed Dr John Watson's narrative of how he had come to meet Sherlock Holmes – this strange, brilliant, eccentric man.

But a friendless man, also – at least before Watson came into his life fresh from Afghanistan, hoping to share rooms with him; instead Watson's description ran that Holmes appeared to be adrift instead in an atlantic of acquaintances, Gregson and Lestrade and all his clients coming and going with the indifference of the tide.

Arthur was like that too, wasn't he? For all his victories, all he had conquered and owned and ruled, all his alliances... here he was, all by himself again, everything having floated past him like driftwood far out of his reach. His relationship with Alfred – his Special Relationship with the United States – was the only stable, constant thing in his life anymore.

_No man is an island?_

Alfred looked up from the book again – at Arthur, still working away at his desk, doing his best for his ruined little land because no-one else would.

_Yes, he is_.

"Artie?" Alfred asked softly. "Do you like being alone?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, not pausing in his writing.

Disappointed by his answer – having hoped to at least get a little more out of him than that – Alfred dipped his head and went back to _A Study in Scarlet_, biting at his bottom lip. He had read another three paragraphs before Arthur suddenly spoke once more, making Alfred look up yet again.

"But," Arthur said, finally raising his head to meet Alfred's gaze, "I like being with you, too."

* * *

**Rationing – **It actually officially ended in 1954 (the year this story is set) but a lot of things in the UK were still in pretty short supply all through the 50s and into the early 60s and, in complete contrast to America, most people couldn't afford a lot of luxuries because things weren't cheap since Britain had spent almost every penny it had had prior to WWII on bombing a Berlin-shaped hole in Germany _during_ WWII. Even though he was born in 1956, my dad still complains about the one year he got a pair of mittens and an orange for Christmas (although he was likely exaggerating just a little). XD

**Typewriters** are, by and large, an American invention. There were prototypes and predecessors to the stereotypical typewriter created in other countries (including Britain), but the machine which is most commonly associated with the term "typewriter" was designed by an American inventor, William Austin Burt, in 1829. Throughout the 30s, 40s and 50s, most typewriters were also manufactured (and more commonly used) in the United States because the UK was dirt-poor (as we have discussed) and most people couldn't afford them anyway. Presumably Arthur's typewriter is an American-made one – perhaps a present from Alfred that Alfred didn't think through, since Arthur totally strikes me as someone who would struggle with/resent new technology more than characters like Alfred, Kiku or Ludwig. No mp3 player, iPhone or _Toy Story 3_ in 3D for him. XD

(Although personally **I** hate iPhones and 3D movies too, but that's beside the point. I just don't see why you _need_ to be constantly connected to the internet or see a movie in three dimensions, but whatever. I'm a 90s kid and we made do without, you young whippersnappers.)

**Arthur Conan Doyle** absolutely believed in fairies. His name is one of the theories as to why England's human name is 'Arthur' – the other being, of course, King Arthur (who was Welsh, ironically).

Hope you all enjoyed Chapter Two! Come back next time for Alfred and Arthur's Grand Day Out! (And it might be a little different to what you're expecting!)

RR xXx

P.S: Yes, yes, and there are my mandatory mentions-in-passing of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Shakespeare, _Sherlock Holmes _and Edgar Allan Poe.


	3. And

Whoo, Chapter 3 already! I can't believe it, u gaiz! BTW, you may have noticed a pattern in the title-chaptering by now, with reference to the drop-down chapter bar on the fic. Eventually they will spell out a sentence in a similar fashion to an **acrostic** poem. Oh, A, what a lovely letter you are – so useful... XD

Thanks to: **jesusofsuburbia2o2o** (!)**, Perfect1Up, Sylence, LostDonut, TamerLorika, Aiyaa, egoXlockheart, Wizzabeff, Kuzzka, Anime18Emo, chetzahime, YourFloatingAngel, , Synonymous Brian, kumori-blue, Tsukubai, sexykill69, Genki-angel-chan, Picadillo, Shinonomisensei, PinkPanther123, nocco, Lady Sango the taijiya, cax **and **unforgivable wish**!

It's date-day for Alfie and Artie! Aww...

(Good luck, Alfred! XD)

A is For…

**[Art]**

He had lost Arthur.

His hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, Alfred strolled back through the museum the way he had come, glancing around for a glimpse of gold, a glint of green; he tutted to himself and popped his bubble gum, taking advantage of Arthur's absence to at least do that without getting a filthy look thrown at him.

Alfred was bored out of his skull. Museums didn't particularly interest him – sure, he appreciated history as much as the next guy, given that he was, you know, an actual nation and all, but (no offence to Yao or Kiku) all Oriental vases kind of looked the same to him. After ten minutes looking at old paintings and older rugs, Alfred was done.

But he was suffering for his art today; the art of seducing Arthur by applying himself wholeheartedly to Arthur's interests instead of whining that he was bored every time he was dragged into a library. Arthur loved dusty old things – probably because he was one himself – and so a whole _building_ full of dusty old things was totally his bag. Unfortunately, his actual being-interested-in-this-crap meant that he liked to stop and stare at things for a while and Alfred, breezing on by in disinterest, kept leaving him behind, often chattering inanely to him only to turn to ask him why he wasn't answering and finding him standing twenty feet away, reading the little explanatory card on a display case of one-thousand-year-old bone combs from Tibet.

This time, however, Alfred had managed to actually lose him; he had been stalking along, absorbed in his own ennui, and hadn't noticed that Arthur wasn't even _within_ twenty feet of him. Feeling rather like a parent unable to keep track of a small child who insisted on wandering off (as _he_ had been prone to doing, now that he thought about it), Alfred felt his patience beginning to wear rather thin as he searched in vain for Arthur – whom he hadn't thought _possible_ to lose until now. Hell, he had waged an entire revolutionary war on Arthur to get away from him and yet... here he was. Searching a museum for him. On a (sort of) date. Even though they had been a couple for years—

Jeez, the point was, how could you lose track of eyebrows like that? Alfred popped his gum again and huffed. Losing Arthur just meant that they'd be here longer, after all.

Personally, Alfred wondered where exactly museums got off charging people to come and look at stuff they had either dug up, found in an attic or procured from some grave robbery or other; when he had voiced this opinion to Arthur, he had merely been told that he was paying for the "cultural and historical experience".

("Are you serious?" Alfred snorted. "Hanging out with _you_ is a cultural and historical experience and I can get that for free by turning up at your house uninvited and staying for two weeks!")

The Victoria and Albert Museum _was_ fairly impressive, however – he had to admit that on merit of the building itself, a splendid Victorian structure, an architectural reflection of imperial grandeur that even the Blitz had barely put a dent in. The high ceilings and curved arches of the walls were impressive, the windows grand and staircases sweeping, the sheer scope and vision of the place barely contained by bricks and mortar, its very existence – its purpose – an embodiment and an expansion of Empire, of its ideologies and ideals. It had been built when Arthur had ruled the world – and now it was a grand tomb for the British Empire, a cenotaph to his achievements, somewhere to pay his respects to his own glory-gone-by.

He eventually stumbled across Arthur in a large room full of oversized paintings, all by himself; Alfred recognised him from the back immediately, knowing the brown suit and the way his hair tended to stick up at the nape of his neck. He was standing perfectly still, looking up at the huge painting before him, his beige trench coat folded over his arm.

"There you are!" Alfred exclaimed with relief, trotting to his side. "I've been hunting all over for you!"

Arthur didn't answer him. He didn't even glance at him or acknowledge his presence. He merely continued to stare at the painting in complete silence.

"Whatcha looking at?" Alfred inquired, admittedly intrigued as to what had attracted Arthur's attention so intimately.

Arthur nodded towards the painting and Alfred finally looked at it properly himself, beginning to blow another bubble as he did so. He blinked once or twice at the monstrous portrait, somewhat taken aback; its sheer size made it overbearing to begin with and the image itself was rather chaotic, dark colours with flashes of bright white here and there, all rendered in violent brushstrokes, the paint thick and generous on the canvas. It was a depiction of a stormy sea with foam like great teeth, the black sky dressed in veins of lightning as bright as pearls, and of ships on and against them – old ships with vast billowing sails, breaking and crashing against the shores of the ruins of either Rome and or Greece (no offence to Feliciano or Herakles, but all Mediterranean ruins kind of looked the same to him).

Alfred had no idea why Arthur was staring at this picture so intently until he – finally – saw the title of the work: _The Descent of Empire_.

Ah.

Alfred didn't know what to say. He popped his bubble as quietly and discreetly as possible and reached out, putting an arm around Arthur, drawing him close—

Or _trying_ to, at least; Arthur shrugged out of his grip, stepping away from him again.

"Not in _public_, Alfred," he muttered. "You know that."

Alfred sighed and nodded, sticking his hands back in his pockets instead.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said blandly. "You hate public displays of affection, blah blah blah."

"I hardly think it appropriate," Arthur replied curtly. He was still looking at the painting. "Besides," he added coldly, "I don't need your pity."

"I don't pity you," Alfred said – he was being completely honest and was inwardly amused when Arthur glanced at him disbelievingly. "No, really, I don't. Not for losing your Empire, anyway. You were just being greedy back then and you know it – I'm not gloating, I'm not rubbing it in your face, trust me, I just... think it's not necessarily a bad thing that you don't own half the globe anymore."

Arthur had actually turned towards him now, apparently interested in what he had to say; Alfred cleared his throat and looked up at the artwork again. He didn't particularly like it but he could understand why _Arthur_ seemed quite fascinated with it.

"But," he went on, looking back at Arthur, "I don't want you to feel sad because of it – like you've failed, like you're worthless because you couldn't hold onto it. Look, I know... you're not used to just sitting at home all the time because you've spent the last few centuries exploring and conquering and whatnot, I know you're probably frustrated and lonely and feel like no-one cares about you anymore because you're not rich and powerful like you used to be, but..."

Alfred trailed off. He had a horrible feeling that he had just dug another hole for himself. Arthur was just looking at him, completely quiet, seeming sort of stunned, in fact.

"Um..." Alfred looked aside, scratching at his forehead abashedly. "...Look, I just meant... that you don't need to be an Empire to be Britain or England or Arthur Kirkland. You were all those things before you went around sticking a flag into everyone who wasn't looking and you're still all those things now and I... like you better like this, anyway." He flapped his hands at Arthur. "I mean, if I'm totally honest, I thought you were kind of a jerk when you were an Empire."

Still silent, Arthur blinked at him. Derailed, stuttering to a complete stop, Alfred fell quiet too. Crap – he'd made him really mad. He should have just kept his mouth shut; damn it, damn it, _damn it_, all his hard work—

Arthur laughed. It was only a little laugh, a sort of reserved giggle behind his fist, but it was genuine.

"...You're not mad?" It was all Alfred could say, sincerely hoping it wasn't the kind of amused chuckle that Arthur had employed back when he had _been_ an Empire (and a pirate), ridiculing someone's attempt to either insult him or put him in his place right before he drew his sword or revolver or merely his own sharp tongue upon them.

"I have to say that I think I would be inclined to agree with you, at least on that last point," Arthur replied. "I wasn't always the most terribly pleasant fellow, I will admit."

"So... you're _not_ mad?" Alfred checked warily.

Arthur shook his head.

"A long time ago I believe I would have taken my belt to you for daring to say such things to me, no matter how true they were," he said, "but, strangely, in this event, your babbling has in fact served to make me feel better."

He stepped back from the painting and glanced at it once more.

"Still," he mused, "they _do_ say that a picture is worth a thousand words."

He smiled and walked away, going on ahead.

Standing where he was, Alfred went through each of his pockets in search of the pen he knew was in his bomber jacket somewhere (because it tended to jab him from time to time, reminding him that he needed to take it out). He eventually found it buried in the lining of the left breast pocket and surfaced with it triumphantly, scampering after Arthur. He didn't have any paper but it didn't matter; he bounded over to Arthur – who was looking at a French painting of a French street, its only distinguishing feature a sign in French, with a scowl on his face – and grabbed his hand.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded, trying to pull his hand back as Alfred turned it over, palm up, and held it still.

Alfred didn't reply until he had quickly drawn a rather wonky heart on Arthur's palm.

"There," he beamed, letting Arthur have his hand back. "If my words make you happy, there's a thousand more for you."

Arthur examined the heart critically for a moment.

"Alfred," he said at length, "it agonises me to tell you this, but you're an absolutely awful artist."

**[Antique]**

"Are you done?" Alfred asked, leaning over Arthur.

"Alfred, let me alone, won't you?" Arthur chided mildly, running his hand along the bookshelf as he moved. "You know I like to take my time with books." He glanced back at the American. "Besides, this was your idea. You asked me if I wanted to go to a bookshop."

"I didn't think you'd be three hours," Alfred muttered.

"Now don't exaggerate," Arthur sighed. "It hasn't been three hours." He pulled out a thin copy of _Lady Windmere's Fan_, looking at it briefly before slipping it back onto the shelf and moving on, clutching the thin, worn blue leatherbound volume he had found several stacks back.

Alfred watched him disappear around the corner of another stack, his open coat trailing behind him; well, at least he was happy, Alfred thought with an inward grimace. Put Arthur in the middle of a bookshop or a library and he was suddenly like a completely different person, dreamy and distracted and very very calm; of course it was near-impossible to get a proper conversation out of him when he had his nose in a novel but he always seemed genuinely content when he was surrounded by books.

This bookshop actually sort of reminded him of Arthur's study, Alfred realised; small and cosy and neat with shelves and shelves of mismatched books all neatly arranged nonetheless. It was a second-hand bookstore, quiet, with only a few other customers wandering around in similar silence, and holding everything from newish paperbacks to old hardbacks dating decades, even centuries, real antiques worth hundreds of pounds. Arthur was like a little kid in a toyshop, flitting back and forth with even more fervour than he had done in the museum, so much so that Alfred couldn't keep up with him. He followed him at a much more languid pace now, finding him down the end of the next stack along looking at something displayed on its own little wooden stand.

"What did you find?" Alfred inquired, approaching him.

"J. M. Barrie's _Peter Pan and Wendy_," Arthur replied, not taking his eyes off the book. "First edition, fully-illustrated." He was smiling. "Beautiful book, isn't it?"

"_Peter Pan_," Alfred repeated thoughtfully. "That's got fairies in, right?"

"...Among other things, yes."

"And pirates?"

"Yes, among other—"

"So I guess you already have it," Alfred noted. "If it has fairies in. And pirates."

"That's some interesting detective work, Mr Holmes," Arthur said flatly. "Actually, I don't own _Peter Pan_ – at least not anymore. I had a second edition but I lent it to Ludwig in 1913 and let's just say... well, I have not seen it since but I rather suspect that it may have met an unfortunate end when 1914 made enemies of us."

"So buy that one," Alfred said, pointing at it.

Arthur rolled his eyes at him.

"I think it's a little too extravagant for me these days, Alfred. Bananas are exotic here, remember?" He glanced longingly at the book again. "Still, I am glad I got the privilege of seeing it. They just don't make books like this anymore."

And then he was gone, tapping lightly away and disappearing back into the jungle of books.

Alfred looked at the book himself, his head to one side. It didn't really look all that great to him, but then he wasn't exactly a connoisseur of books the way Arthur was – Arthur could tell where a book had been bound and printed just by looking at the spine, knew how much it was worth just by touching it. Alfred knew what he had meant by his saying that they didn't make books like this anymore, however; it was heavy and decorative with etched brass corners, a ridged, reinforced spine and an elaborate gold design on the red leather cover of roses and coiling vines and mythical creatures like fairies and mermaids. The only books Alfred had ever seen like it were sitting on Arthur's bookshelves – the ones Arthur had read to him from when he was a child by the fire as the snow spiralled softly outside and beneath the oak tree in the dappled summer-sun-shade.

He didn't even look at the price. He checked Arthur was nowhere near him, picked up the book and went to pay for it.

"Hey." He located Arthur muttering his way through a shelf of alphabetically-arranged Agatha Christie detective novels. "I need some air – all these crusty old books are making me sneeze. I'm gonna go wait outside, okay?"

"Alright," Arthur replied absently, not looking at him.

Alfred grinned gleefully all the way out of the shop. Arthur hadn't noticed a thing – sure, Alfred had the book in its paper bag tucked inside him bomber jacket and Arthur hadn't even glanced in his direction anyway but it had to be admitted that Arthur was always so naturally suspicious of Alfred that it was difficult to surprise him – that, and the fact that Alfred _always_ managed to somehow give himself away.

Leaning against the wall of the bookshop (down its narrow, old-fashioned little cobblestone street), Alfred lit himself a cigarette and folded his arms, looking up at the grey London sky and feeling the hard press of the book against his chest. He really hoped Arthur liked it and didn't yell at him for blowing money on "something idiotic" even if it _had_ admittedly been expensive; Alfred didn't really understand British money, all these shillings and silver sixpences, but he knew that fifty pounds was a lot. He didn't care – honestly, the Great Depression hadn't really taught him a whole lot and, now that he had money again, he was eager to spend it, particularly on Arthur. It really _wasn't_ pity, it wasn't that he felt that Arthur should be pampered because he had once been the British Empire and had since fallen from grace; it was because Arthur had looked after him when he had been little, had played with him and cooked (horribly) for him and sang to him as he tucked him in at night. Alfred felt, now that he was older and stronger, now that Arthur needed it, he should be the one to repay the favour and look after him instead.

And the book? Well, Alfred _was_ hoping that Arthur would be so bowled over by his kindness than an 'Alfie' or two might slip off his tongue – but really, he realised, it was more because he'd just wanted Arthur to have it. He'd remembered Arthur reading to him from books like it and suddenly wanted Arthur to have it _more_ than Arthur himself wanted it.

...Even so, with his mission in mind, it wouldn't hurt to keep track of his progress. He located his pen again and fished out the handwritten receipt for _Peter Pan_ from his pocket, turning it over to the blank side and jotting down a list.

_Super-Awesome Master Plan to get Artie to call me 'Alfie' _

_Make awesome breakfast_

_Make awesome dinner_

_Go to boring-ass museum_

_Go to boring-ass bookstore_

_Buy Artie a present _

_Go for dinner at a swanky restaurant_

_Go home and go to bed (and let Artie pick the position)_

_Try to not kick Artie out of bed at 3:30am_

Alfred worked down his list, ticking the first five items; the latter three were still on the agenda (although he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to manage the very last one, given that he shoved Arthur out of bed in his sleep because he apparently flailed about sometimes).

He gave a satisfied nod, folded the receipt/list, put it back in his pocket and finished his cigarette. He'd have Arthur singing 'Alfie' like a songbird by the end of the night.

Arthur eventually appeared with a paper bag of his own, buttoning his trench coat one-handed as he joined Alfred.

"Find something interesting?" Alfred asked nonchalantly, nodding towards the bag.

"Ah, yes." Arthur handed him the bag so that he could buckle the belt of his coat. "I took the liberty of getting you a little something, actually."

"Oh?" Alfred was torn between delight and annoyance – damn it, if Arthur had bought _him_ something too then _his_ present had become part of a gift exchange and not a random act of kindness.

"Yes. It's nothing special." Arthur put his hands in his pockets, seeming a little embarrassed. "But, if nothing else, I am doing you a favour by expanding your literary palate."

Alfred opened the paper bag, finding two books inside. He recognised the blue hardback Arthur had been carrying around the shop and lifted it out to look at it.

"_Collected Poetry of Rupert Brooke_," he read.

"No, that's mine. The other one."

Alfred reached instead for the little brown canvas-covered book, taking it out of the bag. There was nothing on the cover but when he looked at the spine, he read '_The Hound of the Baskervilles _by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle'.

"Aww, Artie." Alfred beamed at him. "Thanks. Now I don't have to lie on your rug and distract you!"

"That's the idea," Arthur replied. "Although that _is_ a very good one – one of his best. Not to mention that Henry Baskerville is noted to have spent a lot of time in the United States."

"No kidding!" Alfred was still grinning, looking down at the book. "And the best part is, I'll always know it's from you because it has your name on it!"

"Alfred, that aside, I'm the only person who would ever give you a book – moreover because I am the only person with the privilege of knowing that you can, in fact, actually read."

"That's true. Hey, did I tell you that Ivan—"

"Sent you an envelope full of rusty nails," Arthur finished. "Yes, you did. Several times."

"Well, I mean, jeez, what's _up_ with that guy?" Alfred asked, although the question was highly rhetorical. He slipped the book back into the bag. "Anyway, thanks, Artie. I'll take real good care of it. It'll be my favourite book ever!"

Arthur gave a sarcastic roll of his eyes but he smiled nonetheless.

"You're welcome, Alfred," he said, taking the paper bag back. "I'll hold onto it for now, though, so that you don't lose it."

"Yeah—no, wait, I'll trade you!" Unzipping his jacket, unable to keep it a secret a moment longer, Alfred pulled out his own paper-bag-wrapped book. "Here, I... kind of got you something too."

Arthur's face visibly paled a shade as he looked at the bag in Alfred's hand.

"Alfred, you didn't," he said weakly. "Please tell me you didn't buy that copy of _Peter Pan_."

"Open it and see for yourself!" Alfred forcibly injected impenetrable cheeriness into his voice as he shoved the book into Arthur's hands; the expression on Arthur's face had made him waver a little.

Arthur shot him an unreadable look as he opened the bag and pulled out the book.

"You did," was all he said.

Alfred was disappointed by that response – he hadn't even _smiled_ – but he could see for himself that Arthur was a bit shocked.

"Um," he said, "don't be mad."

"Alfred," Arthur said, sounding like he was trying to be patient, "I can't afford this."

"Yeah, I know." Alfred was confused. "That's why _I _bought it for you."

But Arthur shook his head.

"I can't let you do that," he said wearily.

"Sure you can!" Alfred said desperately. "Arthur, please don't make a fuss about it. I want you to have it so I bought it for you. It's as simple as that."

"This was fifty pounds," Arthur said in a low voice.

"I know how much it was. Don't sweat it, baby. There's plenty more where that came from!"

Arthur's eye twitched and for a horrible moment Alfred thought that he was going to completely blow his top over the stupid book; but then he composed himself and a little bit of a blush crept into his cheeks. He looked away.

"Well, thankyou, Alfred," he said, tightening his grip on the book. "It was... unspeakably generous of you."

Pleased, Alfred smiled broadly.

"Shucks, you're welcome, Artie," he said. He watched Arthur carefully put the book back into its bag and fold the top over again.

Okay, so it hadn't exactly been the thanks he'd been hoping for – the overly-enthusiastic kind with Arthur throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him senseless, but then—

"I'm sorry," Arthur said a moment later. "I know I must seem stand-offish. The truth is that no-one has ever... well, I know you have given me presents before, but this seems different somehow, spontaneous for god knows why—"

"Because I love you," Alfred interrupted earnestly. "Why else?"

Arthur blushed deeper and coughed.

"Yes, well, that," he muttered. "The point is... that no-one has ever done... anything like this for me before, so... forgive me if I don't know quite how I should act."

Alfred smiled at him.

"Well, maybe a kiss?" he prompted, leaning forwards.

But Arthur actually recoiled.

"Not in _public_," he hissed.

Alfred blinked, hurt, and leaned back again. Arthur appeared to notice that he had upset him with his abruptness and gave a frustrated sigh.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you," he said. "I just... I'm not comfortable—"

"I know, I know." Alfred felt it best to simply diffuse the situation by acting as though Arthur hadn't hurt his feelings. "It's okay, Arthur, really. Say, look, how about we go get some dinner? You're probably grouchy because you're hungry. It's been hours since we last ate."

"Alright." Arthur tucked _Peter Pan_ carefully under his arm and straightened his tie.

Alfred put the other books inside his coat as he began to walk, Arthur keeping time at his side. There was a long moment of silence between them, during which Alfred mentally kicked himself over and over again—

"I mean it," Arthur suddenly said, looking at him. "Thankyou, Alfred. You certainly are unfathomably sweet to me when the fancy takes you."

Alfred couldn't help but grin.

"What can I say? One antique deserves another, right?"

**[Awkward]**

Arthur had gradually gotten quieter and quieter all throughout dinner, seeming to shrink in his seat across the table from Alfred as he played with his food. By the time the bill came, he looked downright miserable, barely reacting when Alfred kicked at his feet under the table and tried to entice him into a childish, shoes-on game of footsie.

"What's the matter?" Alfred asked on the walk home, arm slung absently, awkwardly, around nothing but air when Arthur shrugged away from him, turning aside.

"Nothing," Arthur replied shortly in that sullen way that he had (and Alfred knew then that it wasn't just his standard 'I'm not comfortable with you sucking my face off in the street' shtick).

"Oh?" Alfred arched an eyebrow briefly before dropping his arm and quickening his pace, bounding around in front of Arthur and stopping him in his tracks. "Nuh-uh, not buying it. What's up? Missing your fairy friends? Having tea withdrawals? Ashamed that you can't compare to my awesomeness?"

"Alfred—"

"Ah!" Alfred beamed, suddenly understanding (or least _thinking_ that he did). "I got it! You're jealous because I was kind of flirting with that waitress, right?" He pretended to pout briefly, before reaching out and grabbing at Arthur's cheeks, pulling at his face to get rid of his almost-permanent scowl. "Aww, don't worry, my little green-eyed monster – I'm all yours! You know that, right?"

"Don't!" Arthur slapped him off aggressively.

Alfred was used to violent rebukes of this kind, but something about the tone of Arthur's voice this time actually made him back off properly, raising his hands in surrender.

"Well, jeez, _sorry_," he said. "Chill, daddio."

Well, Arthur was _never_ amused by his newest slang words, so he supposed he'd been somewhat expecting the filthy look he received for his trouble there; but still, he couldn't help but find himself beginning to get a little put out by Arthur's behaviour, especially after he'd spent the entire day traipsing around doing all that totally un-awesome stuffy-old-man... _stuff_, just to make Arthur happy; because, well, they didn't usually do things like that, at least not often enough to keep the almost-permanent scowl off the grumpy old geezer's face to start with, and because, yeah, he was still on his mission to get said grumpy old geezer to call him "Alfie" again, but the point was that he'd tried really, really hard all day to please him and not make him pissed off at him the way he usually did and Arthur was _still_ mad at him for no reason whatsoever and acting like a total jerk when Alfred had bent over backwards to cater to his weird whimsies—

"Hey, what's your problem?" Alfred bit out when Arthur pushed past him, still clutching the brown-paper-wrapped copy of _Peter Pan_. "Why are you acting so fucking ungrateful after I—?"

"Ungrateful?" Arthur finally turned to him, his voice cold. "I'm not surprised you jumped to that conclusion immediately, if only because it proves that you think you deserve my affection and adoration in return for materialistic favours—"

"Hey, you can't talk!" Alfred interrupted incredulously. "You were always bringing me presents when I was a little kid and you'd have been really pissed off if I hadn't thanked you, right?"

"What I was _going_ to say," Arthur went on icily, "is that it's _not_ that I'm ungrateful for today. Contrary to what you might think, I did enjoy myself, mostly."

Alfred's eyes narrowed sharply behind his glasses.

"Only 'mostly'?"

"Yes, because I was also somewhat uncomfortable, and although I'm certain you probably can't guess why, you _should_ be able to."

Alfred met the quasi-insult with a shrug of his shoulders, the worn leather of his old flight jacket creasing easily with the motion.

"That's what I thought." Arthur scowled and looked down at the package he'd been carting around all afternoon, clutched closely his chest; he bit briefly at his bottom lip, apparently highly conflicted. At length he thrust it back at Alfred, looking away. "I want you to take this back," he said, his voice low but firm. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but I can't accept it."

Alfred blinked first at him, and then at the book.

"But... but I bought it for you, Arthur," he said finally, not taking it. "We've been through this, remember? It was a present."

"I know, and I thank you," Arthur huffed, still not meeting his gaze. "It was very generous of you, but I cannot in all good conscience accept a gift so extravagant, especially not when... well, you paid for everything _else_ today and we both know you did it not because you've suddenly become a gentleman but because I can't afford to spend money the way I used to be able to, and I _already_ owe you money to begin with—"

"Yeah, but that's war money," Alfred argued mildly, still not taking the book. "That's completely different. I mean, the Lend-Lease—"

"—Is so much I'll still be paying you back come the Millennium," Arthur finished curtly. "Alfred, stop making this even more awkward than it already is for me and take the bloody book before I shove it up your arse."

"But..." Alfred floundered again, not wanting to reach out and take it despite Arthur's sincerity. Arthur had obviously been genuinely touched by his kindness when he'd handed him the gift earlier and he'd been inwardly grinning ever since, congratulating himself on what he'd deemed to be the correct move – and now here was Arthur, trying to give it back, saying he couldn't take it after all, attempting to completely undo all of Alfred's hard work.

"No," he said finally, settling for a stubborn approach to the matter. "I bought it for you because I want you to have it. I'm not taking it back."

Arthur scowled, slammed the book into his arms and stomped past him.

Knocked for six, barely grabbing onto the thing before it slipped out of his grasp and hit the pavement, it took Alfred more than a moment to recover from the suddenness of the exchange and whirl around; he grabbed Arthur's wrist, fingers tightening around it as he wrenched him backwards, almost overbalancing him.

He was all set to launch into a rant about Arthur's stupid pride always getting in the way of everything and that he didn't have to have such a stick up his ass all the time; but it was derailed as he heard Arthur give a barely-concealed gasp of pain as he was pulled backwards.

"I'm sorry!" Alfred immediately let go of his wrist. "Did I...? I didn't, I mean... I didn't mean to hurt you—"

"Watch your damned strength, won't you?" Arthur spat, rubbing his wrist. "This isn't the 1700s – you can't be so rough with me anymore."

"I'm sorry," Alfred said again, looking aside. "I keep... I keep forgetting you're not as strong as you used to be."

"I know." Arthur looked at him impassively. "That is entirely our issue here. Everything is different now, Alfred. I know it's difficult for you to understand my position because you came off so well from the Second World War, but it wasn't so grand for the rest of us. France, Poland, even Russia... _All_ of us, Germany and Austria and Italy all included – that war all but ruined us financially. Just remember while you're enjoying your economic boom that not all of us were as lucky – I for one spent almost everything I had on bombing Ludwig and he returned the favour rather eagerly. And as for power..." He smiled bitterly. "I can do nothing but accept that I have lost my title as World Superpower to you. I may not like it, but that's the way it is, and I'm in no position to contest the outcome of a power vacuum, after all. You keep forgetting that I'm not as I was? Well, please _start_ remembering, because you can't treat me the same way anymore. I'm no more than the shell of an empire – one that owes you a _lot_ of money."

"Artie," Alfred said desperately, "I don't care about that. I mean, you have to repay the loan because that was the agreement our bosses back then came to, but I don't want you to suffer for it. I want you to be happy. You deserve it. You've done some awful things and you've been a serious asshole at times but... you gave up everything in the war. You're in debt because you sacrificed so much, because you'd rather have been crushed in battle by Ludwig than simply kneel before him. You're still rationing because that's what standing up to the Axis cost." Alfred shrugged uneasily. "I dunno, I just... think that's pretty heroic, you know? That you're not an Empire anymore is better than any medal for bravery your king could have given you. There is no greater testament to your strength than your scars."

"Alfred—"

"No, listen. _Listen_ to me, Arthur – for once don't dismiss what I say as total nonsense." Alfred took Arthur's shoulders and held his gaze. "You think I'm doing all this out of pity but it's not true. I don't feel sorry for you – I admire you. No matter what happens, you're always my ally. If Ivan was to declare war on me tomorrow, no matter your debt, no matter your weakness, you'd be at my side, wouldn't you?"

"_Alfred_—"

"_Wouldn't_ you, Arthur?"

Arthur gave a defeated sigh and looked away.

"Yes," he said in a low voice. "Without hesitation."

Alfred beamed.

"Because that's what our Special Relationship is all about," he said, and he pressed the book back into Arthur's hands. "So take the book and know that I didn't buy it for you because I felt sorry for you. I bought it for you because I love you and I love you because you're strong."

"And heroic?" Arthur asked blandly.

"Of course! But not as heroic as me."

Arthur gave a sigh and a tired smile and suddenly, unexpectedly, hugged Alfred.

"I don't know about heroic," he muttered as Alfred closed the embrace, "but you're certainly persistent."

"Part of the job description, baby," Alfred said happily.

He could barely contain his glee. Arthur was hugging him. In _public_. Well, it was dark and misty and there was really no-one about, but still. They weren't in the _house_, which was something. Arthur hadn't so much as blown Alfred a kiss beyond the front garden since 1945 (and had just about strangled him that time Alfred had casually inquired as to when Arthur was going to announce that Big Ben was no longer open _to_ the public due to its becoming a territory of the United States).

"Hey, we'll do something boring _and_ free tomorrow, you cheapskate," Alfred added.

"It's fine for you to call me a cheapskate when you're not the one still doling out ration books." Arthur pulled away from him. "Come on, let's get home. You were right about one thing – I _am_ sort of having tea withdrawals. I haven't had a cup since breakfast."

"Ha!" Alfred grinned obnoxiously. "I knew it!" He glanced about the street. "Shall we go find a teahouse?"

"I have tea at home for free." Arthur shook his head at him impatiently. "Alfred, your ridiculous generosity aside, you really need to start being careful with your money. No matter how much you have, it doesn't last. Both the collapse of my Empire and the Great Depression should have taught you that."

"Nah, it'll be fine," Alfred said dismissively. "Recession like that's not gonna happen again! But if you want to go home and drink your boring old everyday tea, we can do that too."

"Yes, let's do that," Arthur said flatly, "if it stops you from throwing your money about like confetti at a parade celebrating your affluence."

"My affluence parade bought you your book, Artie."

They got walking; Arthur lit up a cigarette and Alfred joined him, borrowing the flame from Arthur's silver lighter. It was a pleasant stroll, the streets dark and deserted, a low-hanging London mist straight out of _Sherlock Holmes_ or _Peter Pan_, with a gentle lamplit glow on the cobbles and on the coils of their smoke as it danced on the crisp October air. The rebound of their mutual company upon one another was nice, a calmness in each other's companionship bred not just by their time as lovers but also by the centuries before. They knew each other well – intimately enough to fall into silence like this and for it to not be awkward. Quite the opposite, in fact; total silence on Arthur's part usually indicated that he was comfortable and content.

Of course, at a moment like this, Alfred would have liked nothing more than to slip an arm around Arthur's shoulders and pull him in close as they walked; or to clasp their hands and hold his tight, their fingers locked together.

But he knew Arthur. He knew him better than anyone. He knew he would shrug him away.

Arthur was still so awkward about admitting to his feelings – he was an island, closed-up and isolated, and he was awkward about opening up about _anything_, Alfred knew. A pity, yes, but it was a part of who Arthur was to be like that. He had admitted himself to his liking for being alone, after all (or, at least, for his liking for his _reputation_ as a loner). It had taken Alfred quite a while to accept it but eventually he had realised that it wasn't that Arthur was ashamed of him that he wouldn't let on that they were anything more than acquaintances, associates, in public.

He just wasn't a public-display-of-affection kind of person, too proud – even now – to confess that he was fallible enough to fall in love. The fact that he was in a relationship with Alfred at all was proof of how much he had changed since the end of the war – since he was an Empire no longer.

"It's funny, though." Alfred spoke suddenly. "You were the richest guy in the world not even fifty years ago. You'd have bought that book without even looking at the price tag."

"What did I just say?" Arthur smiled at him, but it was rueful. "It doesn't last."

* * *

**The Victoria and Albert Museum** is in London in the Kensington area – that is, it's real, as opposed to the painting mentioned in this chapter, _The Descent of Empire_, which I made up, lololololol (although there _are_ some absolutely massive paintings in that museum).

**Bubble gum** is an American invention, created sometime in the 1920s, I believe. I am surprised that Alfred has never been shown popping any in the series, actually.

**_Peter Pan_** (originally named _Peter and Wendy_/_Peter Pan and Wendy_) first appeared as a play by J. M. Barrie in 1904 and was reworked as a novel in 1911 – therefore Arthur's second edition copy of the book would have been from probably about 1912 and the one Alfred forked out for in this chapter would have been an original 1911 print – which, incidentally, was illustrated by an artist named Arthur Rackham. =)

(While £50 is a lot for a book even now, in the 1950s it would have been an absolute _fortune_. But, hey, 1950s-era America can probably afford it.)

"**I'll still be paying you back come the Millennium":** Unfortunately for we British, our "representative" wasn't exaggerating. The Anglo-American Loan, a product of the US-UK WWII Lend-Lease, was finally paid off in full by Great Britain to the United States on September 29th, 2006. In the episode in which England is "dying" and America protests "England! You can't die! You owe me money!", this is probably what he was referring to.

Lastly, to return to the subject of London, I was there last week and regret to report that _Hetalia_ has completely ruined Big Ben for me. XD Just looking at it brings out a sense of 'LOL INNUENDO'. There is no sign stating 'Property of USA' on it as of yet, however.

Next chapter Alfred takes a more demure approach to his master plan! Will he reap better results? We shall see!

RR xXx

P.S: ARGHMATSURICONSOJEALOUS!111!111!1111onehundredandeleven!111!1! I feel like _I'm_ the one stuck rotting in Britain right now...


	4. Only

Lads and luvvies, we have officially hit the halfway mark on this fic! This chapter is the last one following Alfred as the narrative lead. I can't believe we're here already! O.o

Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter: **Tamer Lorika, BlackRoseAuthoress, Streamingwords, Chion, Chetzahime, rae1112, Pink Panther 123, tokyo girl 05, Sexykill69, hjdshsdfj, bluephoenix73, kumori-blue, Aiyaa, Anime15Emo, DaMiatzu, Anastasya Debbie, Genki-angel-chan, Wizzabeff, Picadillo, shake-it-buddy, nocco, allofmydreams, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, Sylence, Chibi Chibi Sama, Prestidigitations, Narroch, cax, Vera-Sama, LithiumKiss **and **hexazebra**!

Ah, so, before we begin, I'd just like to say that a few people have pointed out that this fic has elements of angst in it despite being labelled as Humour. I'll admit, yes, there is a little bit of an angsty undertone in here, mostly arising from the time-period in which it is set (the 1950s – which encompasses the aftermath of WWII, the Cold War and the dissolution of the British Empire), so don't be surprised by the touches of melancholia here and there. However, I chose to categorise it as Humour overall (alongside Romance) because the premise of this fic – Alfred failing miserably at tricking Arthur into calling him a pet-name – is pretty humorous (or so _I_ think, lololololol).

A is For…

**[Afternoon]**

"Alfred, you _are_ going to behave yourself tomorrow, aren't you?"

Alfred looked up from where he had been scrutinising the tablecloth with some interest, blinking curiously at Arthur behind his glasses.

"What do you mean?" he inquired benignly.

Arthur, busy setting out the teacups on the tray over at the kitchen counter, glanced briefly at him, his jade eyes flashing dangerously.

"You know _exactly_ what I mean, my boy," he said warningly. "And don't say that you always behave, either – I shan't believe a word of it. God knows you were a handful enough during the war; but now, what with this whole unpleasantness between yourself and Ivan—"

"Oh, I'm not going to speak to that Commie bastard unless he speaks to me," Alfred cut in curtly. "Or Yao – the whole two of 'em can kiss my ass—"

"That's _exactly_ what I meant," Arthur interrupted impatiently. "You would do well to keep things like that to yourself, no matter how strongly you feel. I'm your ally, Alfred, but I have little interest in being dragged into another war."

"I didn't drag you into the last one!" Alfred protested indignantly.

"If you're talking about that farce with Korea then let it be known that I didn't have the _money_ to be dragged in with you." Arthur put the teapot onto the tray too. "Either way, I'd rather that we didn't have a repeat of last year's meeting tomorrow – remember, you and Ivan cordoned off your own areas of the meeting room and even Francis and I weren't allowed to cross over the lines?"

"Yeah, because you're on _my_ side." Alfred rolled his eyes. "But fine, okay, I'll _behave_, as you put it."

"I would be eternally grateful if you would see to it that you do," Arthur replied graciously, lifting the tray. "Come on, then – let's go outside onto the back porch and have our afternoon tea there. The weather is uncommonly fair for October."

Alfred followed him out of the kitchen onto the porch overlooking the back garden and promptly flopped onto the loveseat, propping one heel against the wooden boards of the porch floor and idly rocking himself back and forwards as he watched Arthur fuss with the tray and the small wire-framed table he had put it on.

"Artie, it's fine," he said airily.

"_Arthur_; and this table has always been somewhat temperamental—"

"Aww, park your keister." Alfred leaned over, looped an arm around Arthur's waist and pulled him backwards into the loveseat; he landed heavily and ungracefully with a flail of limbs and glared at Alfred as he righted himself.

"I say, _must_ you be so terribly impatient?" Arthur huffed, smoothing out his V-neck jumper.

"You're always so _slow_!" Alfred replied earnestly. "Except at starting wars, but even _that's_ congealed a little recently—"

"Alfred, don't start," Arthur cut in threateningly; he tried to rise to see to the tray again and Alfred held onto him, pulling him close to his side. "For goodness' sake, boy, won't you let me—"

"I just want a cuddle." Alfred squeezed him in what even _he_ felt was probably more akin to some sort of wrestling manoeuvre but nonetheless held on to him lest he wriggle free. "Come on, give me a little TLC here."

Arthur huffed another sigh but went still; Alfred took full advantage of his sudden compliance to get a good grip on him and pull him into his lap, arranging him so that he was straddling his thighs. Arthur merely blinked down at him bemusedly from his sudden not-so-innocent position.

"This is TLC?" he asked, arching an eyebrow; he put his hands on Alfred's shoulders.

"Sure is," Alfred agreed brightly. He wound his arms around Arthur's back and snuggled close to him, pressing his cheek against the soft wool of Arthur's brown sweater. "You're like a blanket."

"Oh, yes, what a delightful comparison," Arthur said drolly from somewhere above Alfred's chest-buried face. "_That_ makes me feel bloody attractive."

"Nothing wrong with a blanket," Alfred pouted, his voice muffled as he spoke against Arthur's ribcage. "They're warm and cosy and they smell nice and they feel good and you can wrap yourself up in them all safe if you're feeling cold or scared or lonely."

There was a long moment of silence. Alfred sighed inwardly, expecting a smack upside the skull at any given moment. However—

"Alfred, that has to be one of the nicest things you've ever said to me." Arthur gave a little cough. "Odd, too, I can't deny it, but..."

"Liar," Alfred muttered. "I always say nice things to you."

Arthur gave a snort above him.

"Your idea of "nice" is a hearty smack on the arse to encourage me up the stairs at a quicker pace," he said icily.

"Hey, whatever gets results, baby." Alfred looked up at him and grinned. "But if you think my likening you to a ratty old blanket is a turn-on, there's plenty more where that came from. I'll zing you with comparison-compliments all afternoon."

"Oh, now I'm a _ratty old_ blanket?" Arthur asked, but he was obviously amused.

"Well, sure." Alfred shrugged. "A well-loved blanket like you is bound to get a little worn around the edges from all the times I've wrapped myself in you."

Arthur smiled at him, clearly touched.

"And you _are_ kinda old," Alfred added.

Arthur's smile soured.

"I knew you'd ruin it." He gave a deep sigh. "Still, don't look a gift-horse in the mouth, eh?"

Alfred had no idea what he was babbling about but found that he didn't care half a moment later when Arthur's hands went into his hair and suddenly he was being kissed; properly kissed, too, not one of Arthur's bland little pecks when he wasn't interested in having Alfred's tongue down his throat but a real kiss when Arthur was _very_ interested in shoving _his_ tongue down _Alfred's_ throat. Alfred leaned up into it, closing his eyes and opening his mouth and enjoying it. Arthur was a good kisser when he felt like it, never failing to send a tingle glittering down Alfred's spine in his rare moments of great passion, when his hands roamed and explored and made Alfred shudder with sudden obsessive desire. His arms still around Arthur, loose but possessive, Alfred felt that these were the moments he lived for, Arthur's strange spontaneity, his electric English eccentricities, his reminders that he wasn't completely ruined—

And then he was gone. His mouth, his body, everything. Alfred opened his eyes, rather dazed, and blinked in confusion as he saw Arthur take to his feet again and go back to the tray.

He smirked.

"Impressive," he said in a low voice, wiping his mouth on his cuff.

"Wasn't it?" Arthur began pouring the tea into two delicate teacups. "And you always laugh when I say I'm tactical."

"Oh, I don't know," Alfred hummed, accepting the teacup on its saucer that Arthur handed to him. "I try to acknowledge your deviousness when I can."

"There is nothing devious about practicality," Arthur replied primly, sinking onto the loveseat next to Alfred with his own tea. "The fact that I could buy you, sell you and make a profit on you hardly reflects on my personality, I feel inclined to point out – really it would look worse on your part to allow me to take advantage of you as such."

"Oh, yeah. it's sexy as hell when you talk like that," Alfred said flatly.

Arthur shifted, suddenly seeming a little uncomfortable, and sipped distractedly at his tea.

"That's how I used to be, you know," he said in a low voice.

"Then you turned into a boring old man obsessed with spending his Sundays ironing his socks," Alfred finished cheerfully. "Which is totally how I prefer you, remember?"

"Yes, yes, I remember," Arthur sighed. "Perhaps if I were to take up stamp-collecting, too?"

"Aww, yeah." Alfred flickered his hand jokingly over his own crotch. "That's the stuff. Keep talking dirty like that, baby – you're driving me crazy here."

"Alright, you've made your point," Arthur said, apparently unable to keep the fondness out of his voice even so. "How about if I try to not reminisce about what a git I used to be and you... just try to not be a git?"

"Arthur, can I actually do _anything_ by you aside from sitting quietly in a corner that you don't regard as being git-worthy?"

"Well, I suppose we could try the sitting-quietly-in-a-corner thing and see how that goes."

Alfred gave a snort and leaned back against the loveseat, taking a mouthful of tea. It wasn't bad, really. Not as awesome as coffee, of course, but Arthur's godawful cooking skills didn't taint his tea-making, thankfully, and Alfred was perfectly capable of drinking this without suppressing a shudder every time he swallowed.

He rocked the seat to and fro again, more gently this time now that they were both holding tea, and settled more comfortably against the blanket thrown over the loveseat's back. Arthur nudged up closer to him so that they were pressed contentedly together, sitting flush and side-by-side – it was a rare moment of affection on Arthur's part, given that he often squirmed out of Alfred's embraces or brushed away his touches, and Alfred was happy to indulge it, turning to Arthur briefly and giving him a small, quick kiss on the temple. Arthur didn't react but a tiny trace of colour came into his cheeks; Alfred inwardly counted that as a victory and went back to his tea, satisfied.

It was a lovely afternoon, apple-blush-airbrushed with a high blue sky flecked here and there with the thin froth of clouds and the sun that kind of corn-coloured autumn gold that gave October pumpkins a glow like amber. There was a gentle breath of a breeze, just enough to send crisp cinnamon-coloured leaves cartwheeling across the ground, faded greens and craggy browns skipping like frogs and toads and yellows fluttering like falling stars.

It reminded Alfred of Central Park at this time of year, of the long walks he and Arthur had taken there in the late Forties with cigarette smoke blowing away and scarves trailing and Alfred dropping the bread he had brought for the ducks and the pigeons descending like a scene out of that Hitchcock movie ("_Alfred_ Hitchcock, ironically," Arthur had muttered blackly, smoothing his hair back down after they had been forced to abandon the scattered loaf and flee).

Arthur was very different now – before the war Alfred wouldn't have even dreamed of taking tea in the garden with him or going around a museum with him or throwing bread-that-he-hadn't-dropped-this-time for ducks with him ("Don't throw it _at_ them, Alfred! They won't come near you if you threaten to knock them out...") or anything that came with being in an intimate relationship with him, kissing him or cuddling him or making love to him. It wasn't that he hadn't liked Arthur or hadn't wanted to spend time with him – he had, actually, because even if he hadn't liked Arthur sexually back then, he had still been very attached to him, having been raised by him – but rather that Arthur had always seemed so unapproachable, so arrogant and cold and disinterested in everyone and everything around him. It had been power, of course; and greed and wealth and status, though it was no excuse for the fact that Arthur had really been very difficult to like when he'd been the British Empire. All throughout the 1800s and even through the First World War and into the 1920s and 1930s, Arthur had behaved civilly to Alfred, often indulging his company for drinks or parties or the occasional outing, but it had been strained. Arthur had often appeared bored by what Alfred had to say and far too many of his smiles had been forced; and Alfred himself had constantly felt intimidated by Arthur, knowing that he was sizing him up with every sentence he spoke, judging him by the cut of his jacket, by the value of the stones in his cravat pin. Alfred hadn't hated him but he hadn't particularly liked him, either. He hadn't been the Arthur he remembered.

But now, his Empire taken from him, the ruin of the Second World War under his belt, Arthur was like a completely different person – instead becoming again the young Empireless man who had come to the New World and welcomed Alfred into his outstretched arms not because of his worth or his economic advantages or his vast lands—

But because he loved him.

At the height of British Empire, Alfred had looked at Arthur in almost-confusion and wondered how the kind, gentle teenager who had taken him in and protected him could have become so ruthless and cruel – and over money, over prestige, over a name.

It had taken Ludwig twice trying to do much the same thing to make Arthur realise that he had been wrong; and although the loss of Arthur's Empire had been an inevitable effect of the war as opposed to an actual conscious decision on his part to give it up, it was true that even if Arthur felt lonely and forgotten now that he wasn't the world's superpower anymore, within _himself_ he seemed... happier. His smile was natural again, as it had been in the 1700s, and he looked at Alfred with a previously-forgotten warmth instead of frosty disregard.

Alfred rested his saucer on his lap, taking up his teacup in his left hand and threading his right with Arthur's left, their fingers braiding boldly together. Arthur met his gaze briefly, not speaking, his expression difficult to read, but he made no attempt to pull his hand away.

Alfred's hand was bigger than Arthur's. He'd known it but it always felt strange to him because he could still remember so clearly when he had been small and had had to stretch to put his tiny hand in Arthur's larger one as they walked home from the marketplace or the town or the woods where they wandered as Arthur told him stories.

Arthur was looking at their linked hands too; he doubtless couldn't fail to notice that Alfred's dwarfed his, for Alfred had a broad palm and long fingers where Arthur's was slender and pointed, almost feminine, good for his embroidery. It was hard to believe that he had killed with these hands – even though Alfred had seen him do it.

He looked at Arthur and wanted to say something, anything, but his voice suddenly failed him. He wanted to break the silence but he didn't know how to not ruin the moment by saying something idiotic and inappropriate like "You know what they say about guys with big hands".

_Please_, he pleaded inwardly, staring at Arthur in desperation. _I'm trying to read the atmosphere. I'm trying not to trample the mood here. Help!_

Arthur squeezed his hand.

"It's alright," he said gently, smiling faintly at Alfred. "It's alright that you grew up to be big and strong like I told you to."

**[Autumn]**

Alfred opened his eyes. He was lying alone on the loveseat with the blanket over him; Arthur was gone and so was the book. Alfred realised that he must have fallen asleep.

After finishing their tea, Arthur had taken the tray back inside and returned a few minutes later with the copy of _Peter Pan and Wendy_ that Alfred had bought for him the previous day. Perhaps he'd been hoping to read in silence by himself, simply curled up against Alfred for company, but Alfred himself had requested that he read to him as he had when he had been a child and Arthur had sighed (but really looked rather secretly pleased that Alfred had asked) and agreed.

Alfred had sprawled across the loveseat with his head in Arthur's lap, closing his eyes and gradually feeling himself grow drowsier and drowsier, drugged by the pleasant cocktail of the warm October sun and the sound of Arthur's voice as he read and the feeling of Arthur stroking his hair almost absently with the hand that wasn't holding the book, breaking every now and then to turn the page. He had tried to stay awake, wanting to listen to the story, but eventually it had all overcome him and now he awoke on the softly-swinging seat with stiff shoulders.

He sat up, stretching out his arms and back with a groan, feeling the joints pop, and yawned and rubbed at his mussed hair as he glanced about for Arthur; he straightened his crooked glasses, noting irritably that they were a little smeared, as he located the older man in the middle of the back garden with a rake, methodically chasing all of the stray leaves into a neat pile.

Alfred took off his glasses, cleaned them on the hem of his dark blue sweater-vest and put them back on. He stared at the leaf pile with what might be awkwardly described as some bizarre form of lust. He seriously, honestly, _desperately_ wanted to jump in it.

Arthur would kill him, of course, but he reasoned that he would at least die happy.

He got up, stretching again and twisting out his crumpled spine, which was a sensation strangely spliced between delicious pleasure and absolute agony, and came neatly down the steps of the porch and into the garden, casually shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Arthur was now engrossed over by the large oak tree at the bottom of the garden, scratching like a hen on the dry ground between the roots to get at the leaves congealed there. He'd worked himself up quite a heap and clawed a few more into it before he began to drag the lot of them over towards the larger pile that Alfred was currently lurking beside and examining from all angles.

"Don't even think about it, Alfred," Arthur said, not so much as glancing at him.

"I'm just looking," Alfred huffed, inwardly cursing. God, Arthur knew him far too well...

"I mean it." Arthur added his new leaves to the pile and turned towards Alfred, wielding the rake like a weapon, holding it with the ease and expertise he had once held a sword. "You will die if you so much as _breathe_ on one of those leaves."

"I'm nowhere near them!" Alfred protested.

"For the sake of your general welfare, I suggest you keep it that way," Arthur said. He shot Alfred another suspicious glance before starting away again.

Alfred bounded over the edge of the leaf pile and skipped in front of Arthur, stopping him. Arthur's eyes narrowed distrustfully.

"What are you up to?" he asked coolly.

Alfred beamed at him.

"Nothing, Artie," he chirped.

"My _name_ is—" Arthur was cut off by Alfred swooping in and kissing him.

Honestly, Alfred hadn't expected Arthur to fall for this – so obvious a distraction – but it seemed that even Arthur had it in him to be easily tricked every now and then; he closed his eyes and dropped the rake and wound his arms around Alfred's neck, happy to accommodate Alfred's apparent sudden thirst for him. His hands on Arthur's waist, Alfred waited until he felt the smaller man relax completely before suddenly pressing his own weight forwards. Arthur couldn't take the sudden collapse of all of Alfred and overbalanced, toppling backwards into the leaves, Alfred coming down with him all too gleefully. The leaf pile seemed to explode as they came crashing down into the heart of it, lone specimens hailing down like sun-kissed snow upon them as they lay there dazedly.

"I might have known," Arthur moaned; he sounded irritated but not actually as angry as Alfred had anticipated. "You're raking them up again. Every last one."

"Will do, Artie." Alfred kissed him on the forehead. "Though you should have known better than to make a giant pile of leaves right where I could see it."

"Yes, I suppose I should have," Arthur sighed. "Forgive me; sometimes I forget that you're a complete and utter imbecile."

"That's not very nice," Alfred pouted, nipping at Arthur's neck.

"Mm. True, though." Arthur gave a heavy exhale and looked up at the sky, ruffling Alfred's hair. "But you're _my_ imbecile."

"Cool juice, daddio." Alfred grinned.

"Please don't talk like that – it makes me want to hammer nails into my ears."

Alfred laughed and pushed upwards, his hands on Arthur's arms as he looked down at him admiringly. The gold of his hair and brown of his V-neck jumper and mottle of sunlight-and-shadow on his skin merged and melded with the yellows and oranges and reds and rusts of the leaves beneath him, his small, slender form nestled within Nature's pretty, rotting bed; but the green of his eyes was vivid and brilliant, strangely lush and liquid and like live leaves as he looked up at Alfred.

_Alive_.

"Don't." Arthur caught Alfred's hands at his belt, stopping him from beginning to unbuckle it.

"But—" Alfred began; he was overtaken with a sudden more urgent lust, a more insatiable desire, than before when he had looked at the leaves without Arthur lying amongst them. He was suddenly struck with the unflappable need to tell Arthur how beautiful he was even now – _especially_ now – and felt that this was the best way of articulating it. He was already heavy and swollen behind his slacks, already aching with want, and doubled his efforts to get past Arthur's belt and button and zip.

"Alfred, _don't_." Arthur pried his hands away firmly. "Not here."

"Why not?" There was a whine present in Alfred's voice. "Just because we're outside? No-one's gonna see—"

"That's not—!" Arthur flushed and looked away. "...That's not it."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't. It really isn't."

"Then what?" Alfred grinned. "You just don't want me to do it to you on a pile of leaves? Is _that_ it?"

Arthur looked back at him again, presumably taken aback by the fact that he had – apparently – guessed correctly. Alfred arched an eyebrow.

"Huh," he huffed. "And here I thought you liked flowers and fairy-mushroom-rings and... and enchanted oak trees and all that Mother Nature stuff. Didn't think you'd be such a princess about where we—"

"They're dead leaves." Arthur said it sharply, coldly, as though _that_ explained everything.

"And?" Alfred picked up a particularly pretty star-shaped one by the stalk – all tortoiseshell scarlet and saffron and sienna. "They're still cool. They look _nicer_ like this, right?"

(Even though Arthur's eyes were green.)

"Even so," Arthur replied, suddenly sounding weary, as though tired of explaining himself, "I'd rather you didn't make love to me amongst corpses."

**[Alive]**

"_One day I shall be as they are!" Alfred declared, sitting up in bed as he watched Arthur put the book of fairytales back on the shelf. _

_The dying fire flickered in the grate, changing the shapes of the shadows on the walls and on the floor; Alfred shivered, for they looked so much like ghosts to him, but he rallied his courage. He would not be afraid. He would show Arthur that he was strong and brave and then Arthur would be proud of him._

_Tall, powerful, wonderful Arthur – like King Arthur with his Knights of the Round Table. Alfred absolutely adored him and hoped that he would one day be like him. Oh, but would he ever grow to such a height? Would he ever be that strong? It would take years, surely!_

_Arthur slipped the book onto the shelf and turned back to Alfred, tutting when he saw the child upright again._

"_As who are, Alfred?" he asked gently, coming back to the bed. "As bold as a knight or as wise as a king; as true as a prince or as pure as a princess?"_

"_All, all!" Alfred insisted excitedly. "I shall become a great hero, the strongest there has ever been, and no-one shall dare challenge my might!"_

"_Indeed," Arthur agreed warmly, pushing Alfred back down and getting him settled again. "Alfred the Great, hm?"_

"_No, no, greater than even him!"_

"_Ah, do not boast, Alfred," Arthur said, his tone mild. "It is quite unbecoming. Now then, my boy, it is time for you to sleep." He leaned down and kissed Alfred on the forehead. "Goodnight and pleasant dreams."_

"_Arthur?"_

_Arthur gave a sigh. Alfred was often a nuisance at bedtime and he was up to his usual act of getting to stay awake for ten minutes longer by asking questions._

"_Yes?" Arthur replied wearily._

"_We shall get married, yes?"_

_Arthur blinked at him, taken aback by this sudden proclamation. He simply stared at Alfred, unable to formulate a coherent sentence._

"_Because," Alfred went on cheerfully, "that is how all of the stories you read to me end! The hero marries the beautiful princess and lives happily ever after!"_

"_And am I the "beautiful princess"?" Arthur found his voice again, half-amused. _

"_No, Arthur is brave and strong too," Alfred explained, "but the hero must have somebody to protect! I should rather choose you than a silly princess!"_

"_Well, Alfred, I am very flattered," Arthur said, smoothing out Alfred's sheets, "but I rather think that you are perhaps a little too young to be considering such a thing."_

"_Then wait for me, Arthur!" Alfred replied earnestly, smiling brightly. "I will grow up and be a hero and we shall live happily ever after – so wait for me."_

—

After 2am and Alfred lay looking up at the ceiling, listening to the gentle come-and-go of Arthur's breathing as he slept next to him. The older man was on his side, his back to him, the moon's unkind light cold on his blonde hair and the soft slope of his bare shoulder where the sheets had slipped.

Arthur wasn't in a cuddly mood tonight. Alfred had attempted to gather him into his arms after the lovemaking-_not_-on-a-pile-of-raked-leaves was over but Arthur had merely squirmed out of his grasp with a tired groan of "Leave me _alone_, Alfred", retreated to his side of the mattress and that had been the end of it.

Alfred leaned over the side of the bed to where his jeans lay in a crumpled heap on the floor and fished in one of the pockets, pulling out the mangled star-shaped leaf by the bent stem and holding it up above his head, twisting it this way and that. In the autumn afternoon air he had liked it for its shape and for the bleeding of one bright colour into another upon its skin, all beautiful and natural, the kinds of things that _Arthur_ liked—

But now it was dark and he wasn't wearing his glasses and the thing had been jammed into his pocket for hours, having been folded and slipped it into his jeans when Arthur hadn't been watching so that he could look at it better later.

And now he looked at it (better?) and thought that it wasn't as nice as he'd first believed.

_I'd rather you didn't make love to me amongst corpses._

Arthur's words echoed in his head; they had been there all afternoon and all evening, rooted and growing like a cancer, making him tentative about even touching Arthur, worrying that he would flinch away. He had been gentle about coaxing Arthur upstairs, gentler still about laying him against the plain white bed-sheets (and thinking they sort of looked a bit like a shroud). Arthur had lain and looked up at him with his legs open to accommodate him, his hair yellow and his jumper brown and his shirt off-white with an amber tea-stain on the left cuff like a blotch of visible age on old paper.

Ah, but his eyes. His eyes the colour of life. Alfred had begged him to keep them open as he undressed him – looking on him for signs of decay like those on the leaves, for red bruises and yellow scars and orange rifts and brown rot. Nothing, of course; nothing but bruises and scars and rifts and rot from battles, from wars, but those were normal. Those had always been there. Alfred had blotted and bandaged some of these in the Second World War and in the First, _given_ him others in 1812 and 1776.

No, that wasn't what he had been looking for. He knew why Arthur had said that. It was because he felt that _he_ was a corpse too and didn't want to be made love to in his grave.

Alfred didn't believe it. Arthur had fallen and fluttered from his perch at the top of the world but he had not landed on the ground to rot and be trampled on. Alfred had caught him. Oh, the signs of wear and tear were there; it had not been only his eyes that were green during the war, his uniform a physical extension of his bid to stay alive, wrapped in life like a leaf because he refused to fall. He didn't wear green anymore, not since the war had ended and his Empire had been dismantled, taking it off for the last time as he fell into bed with Alfred in a tangle of limbs and a flurry of kisses and the perfume of celebratory champagne on both of them on that sticky August night nine years ago—

Instead he wore muted colours, blacks and greys and _browns_.

But, still, his eyes. Green. They were still green. He was still alive.

Arthur shifted and turned over and suddenly – _finally_ – curled up close to Alfred, resting his head on his chest. Alfred let go of the leaf, allowing it to flutter out of sight back to the floor, and put his arms around Arthur instead.

"Are you awake?" he asked softly.

No answer.

Alfred sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the crown of Arthur's head. He felt Arthur nuzzle against him in content; and felt, also, the steady thrum of Arthur's heart through his ribcage, the same rhythm he had listened to for twelve years, the same one that had calmed him the night before an air raid back in the war, the same one that had soothed him when he had been small and afraid of the bumps and creaks of the night and had scrambled urgently in Arthur's bed to huddle against him.

"I love you," Alfred whispered. "I love you, I love you."

"Mm." Arthur sleepily patted Alfred's chest. "I love you too."

"You _are_ awake," Alfred accused, slightly embarrassed that Arthur had heard him being so sentimental – he had only said it because he'd thought Arthur had been sleeping.

"Barely." Arthur sighed deeply. "Night, pet."

Alfred chewed at his bottom lip for a long moment, Arthur's thick hair tickling his chin. Even two nights later he couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur seemed sort of melancholy and subdued – he hoped that it wasn't _his_ fault and that, if there _was_ something the matter, Arthur would tell him what it was. He was a hero, after all, and it was therefore his duty to protect Arthur and ensure his happiness, right?

It was a strange thing that the reversal of their strength and status had left them like this, with Alfred in Arthur's place as world superpower; Alfred had always nursed heroic notions but his promises of centuries ago, made when he had to stretch to even hug Arthur around his middle, had been furnished with the grandeur of a far-off future. He had imagined it greater than this, where perhaps he had slain dragons whilst carrying the Union Jack as a favour from his beloved, where perhaps he had built Arthur's crown for their happily-ever-after wedding with gold and silver and jewel upon precious jewel that he had fetched from all four corners of the world upon his gallant quests. It had been fanciful but it had been simple. It had been like the stories Arthur had read to him and he, in turn, had imagined himself and Arthur in the flat, rigid roles of the great hero and his chosen prize-bride.

It had taken him this long to learn that life was not that simple and neither were they. The more Alfred grew the more he understood and the more he came to know Arthur not as wonderful, infallible mentor with no other facets other than his being a wonderful, infallible mentor—

But instead as a person – as a friend and as an enemy and as an ally. By the time Alfred went to war with him to fight for his independence, he had fleshed Arthur out as someone who could be wrong, could be argued with and stood up to. He grew to begin to interpret his own feelings and realised then that Arthur had them too – that Arthur had likes and dislikes, that some things made him happy and others sad and others angry, that he had a sexual appetite, that he had a calm demeanour and a romantic mind beneath his outward behaviour, that he had quirks and oddities about him that came from both his nationality and from his personality. Alfred got to know Arthur properly as he got to know himself, a coming-of-age of both his mind and body and his relationship with his caretaker. Arthur was the first person Alfred ever came to know so intimately, understanding him on an adult level as he learned what an adult was.

Telling, then, that Alfred never really took the trouble to get to know anyone else quite so well. He had to admit that, the moment he had been given an opportunity to latch himself firmly back onto Arthur, he had taken it. All being away from Arthur for all those years (as Arthur busied himself expanding his Empire) had taught Alfred was that he didn't want anyone else, no matter the circumstances, no matter what happened. Arthur was weak now, up to his eyeballs in debt and grouchier than ever, and still Alfred – rich, prosperous, nuclear-powered America – would not be parted from him. A long time ago he had chosen Arthur over Francis and had cuddled into his arms contentedly, happy with his decision; now, all these years later, Arthur lay curled in _his_ arms instead and still Alfred did not regret his choice, and nor would he, he was sure, for the rest of his life. He wouldn't rethink his decision or reject Arthur because of money or status or power; and, in Arthur's weakness because of the war, he did not feel resentment, he did not feel shame, only that it was his job, as a hero, to support and let him know that at least one person cared about him now that he had been crushed.

And so, if Arthur was upset or miserable (because Alfred now knew that he had it in him to be those things), it fell to the hero to put things right for his princess.

"Artie?" he asked at length into the dark.

"What?" The reply was delayed and groggy but pleasant.

"Are you... sure you're alright? Because, you know, if there is, you should remember that I'm a great hero, the strongest there's ever been—"

"And no-one shall dare challenge your might," Arthur finished. His voice was still sleepy but he sounded amused. "I know, Alfred – or should I say Alfred the Great?"

"Alfred the Great_est_."

"Of course. Fine then, a kiss for my brave hero." Arthur kissed him on the collarbone. "Now go to _sleep_. We have that Former Allied Powers meet-up in the morning and I don't want you tired and cranky. Heaven knows you pick fights with Ivan as it is..."

"You're the cranky one, old geezer," Alfred muttered; annoyingly, it seemed that for all of Arthur's strange sentimentality tonight, he still wasn't going to get an 'Alfie' out of him.

Arthur didn't reply; a deep exhale on his part proved that he was either asleep again or too near it to have heard Alfred griping.

Alfred gave a sigh of his own and gathered Arthur close again. He loved the smell of familiarity on him, leather-bound paper and clean linen and old gunpowder. It reminded him of everything because he had known Arthur his entire life – of brilliant mornings with wide open skies when he was a child and he ran ahead and came back to Arthur's side with a handful of daisies for him, of mud-drenched afternoons during the war when they sat in silence and played cards to calm their frayed nerves and Arthur still wore that wilted poppy Alfred had put in his buttonhole, of heavy stormy nights in New York and London when the rain lashed and round-roofed cars trailed sluggishly past the window and he made love to Arthur on the fur rug by the fire and delightedly devoured all his vital signs, his little proofs that he was alive in Alfred's arms; listened to him breathe and felt him move and waited for the moans of his own name.

Alfred. Never Alfie. Always Alfred.

* * *

And so ends the Alfred-centric half of this fanfic and still our enterprising hero hasn't managed to squeeze an 'Alfie' out of dear Arthur! Perhaps he'll have better luck in the second half, which focuses on the viewpoint of his target. XD

Not too much to say about this one, although I do like how it turned out. Fun fact: The bit with Alfred and Arthur in the leaves was the first segment of this fic written and it was done when I was still in the USA on my year abroad. I think I might have written it as early as March...

**Unpleasantness with Ivan:** The Cold War, obviously (also mentioned is the Cold War proxy-battle, the Korean War of 1950-1953). Keep an eye on this.

**Alfred wearing a sweater-vest:** Yes, yes, usually an Arthur-garment but... hey, this is the 1950s. Sweater-vests were a staple piece of clothing for men in the 40s, 50s and even the 60s in both the UK and the USA, as far as I know. This is easy to spot in old movies or TV shows (and in _Batman: The Animated Series_ – supposedly set in the 40s – modelled dashingly by Dick Grayson). Alfred (Jones, not Pennyworth!) himself is also shown wearing a sweater-vest in the American Revolution flashback episodes of the anime whilst he is clearing his storage room – although I am not sure when those episodes are set. He does have Lithuania with him so maybe the 1920s?

So, some exciting stuff for the next chapter! Not only do we get our first Arthur-POV, we also get OTHER CHARACTERS!11!1111111!11 Yes, how terribly exciting! The (Former) Allies are here next chapter and you _know_ that everything is going to go just horribly. XD

Lastly, I watched Disney's _Peter Pan_ last night because my brother had been playing _Kingdom Hearts_ and decided that he wanted to watch it (which was rather uncanny, I'll admit) because he could barely remember it, and... well. Yeah. I _knew_ I didn't like Tinker-Bell, that little bitch.

RR

xXx


	5. Letter

OMG, my apologies! I know I'm late with this, please forgive me! The truth is that I was off Englanding (_verb [active participle]_; the act of traipsing tourist-fashion all over England – the country, not the person, thanks very much, _Hetalia_) all last week, so getting this posted on Friday was kind of out of the question. I am very sorry if anyone was disappointed (lolololol, I doubt it).

Englanding was fun, BTW. I went to William Shakespeare's house in Stratford-Upon-Avon, amongst other things, which was pretty neat. Getting stuck in traffic for like three hours in Dartmouth was less fun, though. ^^ Oh, the weather? Godawful, of course. This _is_ Britain, yanno. XD

Anyway, speaking of England, this is the first chapter which follows him as the narrative lead instead of America – it is also, I believe, the longest chapter so far, so I hope the length makes up for the wait!

(It is also the darkest chapter – as in, some of the subject material goes into the darkest areas this fic will be touching. We _are_ in the Cold War period, after all.)

Thanks to: **hexazebra, Anastasya Debbie, sexykill69, YourFloatingAngel, Tamer Lorika, Sylence, egoXlockheart, PinkPanther123, OneWithManyNames, Aiyaa, Anime18Emo, Streamingwords, Prestidigitations, shake-it-buddy, kumori-blue,Kuzzka, Bistre Melancholia, Xxzomgcheeri00sxX, DaMiatzu, cax, LithiumKiss, SaraSeru13, Genki-angel-chan, nocco, Picadillo **and** Emeral Wolf**!

And now, for the first time in _A is For_, characters other than just Alfie and Artie!

(Please forgive my _horrendous_ French. I couldn't give a fig about it at school and to this day the most complex sentence I can say in French is 'Je deteste le chat', which is something like 'I hate cats'. Which is also not even true.)

A is For…

**[Allies]**

"Angleterre!"

Francis was upon Arthur before he could sortie some kind of evasive manoeuvre, all-hands as usual as he put an arm around Arthur's shoulders in what was presumably a friendly manner (in France, anyway).

"Arthur, Arthur," he went on with a deep, melancholy sigh, "tell me, mon ami, when exactly are you going to do something about those eyebrows of yours?"

"You see," Arthur replied, gingerly removing Francis' arm, "this is why we can never be friends, you lecherous, frog-sucking cretin. In English we say "Hello, how have you been?"."

Francis blinked, looking genuinely surprised.

"What form of English is this?" he inquired. "Certainly I have never heard that foul mouth of yours say such a thing, at least not to moi."

"Well, then, there's your answer."

Arthur glanced around the small meeting room – they'd held the Annual Former Allied Powers Gathering (or whatever it was, exactly) here in London this year and all six of them had managed to attend. With the actual discussion over, everyone seemed to have clustered into pairs for refreshments that they would all probably complain about later. Over by the coffee, Alfred was chattering animatedly to Matthew, who was smiling and nodding politely, unable to get in a word of his own; Ivan and Yao were still sitting at the table, although Yao had taken it upon himself to get them both some tea. They both looked rather sulky and had notably not really said a lot during the meeting – Alfred, as usual, had shot his mouth off about this, that and the other and more-or-less dominated the discussion.

The meeting had actually gone horribly; there had been no real bust-ups, no arguments, but these meetings –designed to preserve goodwill and amiability between those who had fought together against the Axis Powers during the war – had been worsening year by year, with things like Communism and war debts and nuclear power and the Korean War piling up and causing more and more tension as time went on. Ivan and Yao had, in fact, sat together on the opposite side of the table to the rest of them, Ivan deliberately facing Alfred (who had been flanked either side by Arthur and Matthew).

God, how they _hated_ each other. It was so obvious, so overbearing, that the atmosphere was almost suffocating when they were in the same room. They had never exactly been the greatest of friends, even when they had been allies, but their relationship had definitely worsened since the end of the war – since the bombs, since Alfred had shared his secret with Arthur and not with Ivan. Arthur was dismayed, in fact, to see Alfred so obsessively odious towards Ivan because he had never known Alfred to be hateful before; oh, he was obnoxious, certainly, and he was quick to rally the troops if he felt someone was trying to push him around or threaten him, as Arthur himself well knew, but even then, Alfred got himself into wars out of indignance, even of out of revenge – but never out of pure hatred. He was usually so good-natured that it unsettled Arthur to see him utterly consumed with contempt.

"Ah, is it not sickening?" Francis asked cheerfully. "Everyone in this room is romantically-involved with another in this room."

Arthur glanced at him sharply.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Oh, it is very simple," Francis explained, seeming to think that Arthur had not understood his statement. "Ivan and dear Yao, your fine self and darling Alfred and moi et le adorablé Mathieu—"

"You and... and _Matthew_?" Arthur rounded on him. "Since when?"

Francis merely shook his head in disappointment.

"It cannot be helped if you are so very inattentive," he sighed. "For many years now, mon ami."

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Well," he huffed, "I'm not entirely sure I approve of that, Francis. In fact, no, I don't approve at all."

Francis laughed.

"Arthur, I do not breach the subject in the hopes of acquiring your blessing," he said. "You might say that the damage is very much done. Besides, I think that it has very little to do with you. Mathieu is independent from you and what was your Empire – our relationship has everything it needs purely with what _I _have taught him. That is, we converse in French when we are alone – and I think you would agree that it is nice for two people so closely entwined to share a common tongue. Is it not nice to be unburdened by the barrier of language with Alfred?"

Arthur didn't have an answer to that and so, for once, kept his mouth shut.

"It must be difficult for Ivan and Yao," Francis went on. "Russian and Chinese – I wonder which they have chosen. How do you suppose they communicate?"

"By waving red flags around," Arthur said bitterly.

Francis appeared amused.

"I see that Alfred has begun to have something of an effect on you instead of the other way around," he noted.

Arthur shrugged.

"Alfred can be an idiot at times," he said, "but I happen to agree with him about Communism."

"Well, that is why you are Capitalist, as he is – as we _all_ are in the west."

"Yes," Arthur agreed distractedly; he was watching Ivan, who had risen, a sickly smile on his face, and was making his way over towards the vicinity of Alfred and Matthew.

Arthur looked at Yao, meeting his gaze; Yao gave a visible tired sigh and got up.

"Excuse me, Francis," Arthur said absently, starting away himself; but Francis kept up with him, his smile suddenly somewhat falser.

"I think I'll join you," Francis replied, "to help ensure that our gallant hero does not manage to displease Ivan any more than he already has."

Arthur bit at his bottom lip irritably.

"We really shouldn't have to tiptoe around the issue," he muttered. "I know Alfred is a loudmouth and he says things that he probably shouldn't but _Ivan_ is a bully and I don't see why we should continue to pacify him by smiling and keeping quiet – for pity's sake, you and I declared _war_ on Ludwig when he was doing much the same thing—"

"Oui, oui, but even so," Francis interrupted in a low voice, "things are different now – and _Alfred_ is the one who made things so."

Arthur couldn't argue with that – it was perfectly true. He knew better than anyone that Alfred was actually fairly dangerous, something of a ticking time-bomb that could go off at any moment if pushed far enough. He and Ivan both had the power to end the world if they so chose and they despised one another to the extent that the world might seem like fair price to pay for the pleasure of wiping each other out.

It was all he could do to simply hold onto Alfred and try to keep him grounded, to keep his loathing in check, to hope that Alfred would still listen to him now that he didn't command the same sort of authority as he once had.

He and Francis reached the small gathering at the coffee filter around the same time that Yao did – which was, incidentally, rather too late. Alfred and Ivan were already in the process of squaring up to one another, shooting each other daggers whilst carefully maintaining their manicured, painted-on smiles (that bright, horribly-fake smile on Alfred's face never failed to make Arthur shudder).

"Alfred," Matthew began lamely, his voice quiet and quavering, "there's really no need for you to—"

"Yes," Ivan cut in smoothly, waving his hand dismissively at Matthew. "All I said was that your brother and I have our houses in close proximity." His smile broadened. "Surely you find no fault in my pointing out such an obvious fact?"

The cracks were quicker to show in Alfred's smile, too tense and too taut to take withholding the truth.

"You wanna pick a fight with me, Ivan, that's fine by me," he said, his fists clenching at his sides. "Bring it on, seriously – but don't _ever_ threaten my brother, you hear me?"

Ivan blinked innocently at him.

"Threaten?" He laughed, the sound wound-up, tinkling, like a musical box. "You certainly are most terribly paranoid, comrade—"

Something in Alfred visibly snapped; Arthur saw it and presumably so did Matthew, for they both stepped towards the American in the same moment, Arthur putting a hand to Alfred's chest and Matthew taking his left upper arm. They were both ready to restrain him.

"I am not your _comrade_!" Alfred snapped, leaning towards Ivan despite Arthur and Matthew's grasp on him. "Don't talk to me like I'm another of you Commie bastards—"

"_Alfred_," Arthur hissed threateningly.

Alfred glanced at him, appearing genuinely confused.

"What?" he asked blankly. "You agree with me about Communism, remember?"

"Be that as it may," Arthur said in a low voice, "I recall you promising me yesterday that you would behave yourself at this meeting."

"Ah," Ivan mused, turning his attention towards Arthur, "I am unsurprised that a thoroughly-Churchillian creature such as you agrees with the American disdain of Communism." His lilac eyes narrowed. "No doubt it was _you_ who put such thoughts into your pretty little pet's empty head to begin with. Is it too much to ask that you keep your poison to yourself?"

Arthur smirked and headed off Alfred, who had opened his mouth in outrage yet again:

"What is poison worth if it is not used for ill will?" he asked sweetly; he shot a glance at Yao as he spoke.

_Reign him in._ He spoke with the slightest flicker of his green eyes. _Reign Ivan in or I won't be held accountable._

Yao tugged at Ivan's arm and spoke in low, urgent Russian; but Ivan didn't even look at him, shaking him off.

"_Nyet_, Yao-Yao," he replied; he was looking delightedly between Alfred and Arthur, seemingly enjoying the tag-team they had formed against him.

"Arthur," Francis muttered coolly, "I hope you're not about to let this get out of hand."

"I'm not." Arthur admittedly liked a good fight as much as anyone; but he patted soothingly at Alfred's chest. "I say, Alfred, do be a good chap and come along—"

"Hell no!" Alfred brushed Arthur aside and tried to tug his arm out of Matthew's grasp. "First he comes over here all in my face about how if he were to attack Matthew, there wouldn't be much I could do about it – then he insults _you_ and you want me to just walk away—"

"_Mon dieu_, why must you make such a spectacle out of everything?" Francis asked disgustedly, kneading at his forehead. "Matthew, come – let us depart before things get any uglier."

Matthew appeared reluctant to let go of Alfred, looking between him, Francis and Ivan. Yao, rather white-faced, was holding Ivan's sleeve in a similar manner.

"_Alfred_." Arthur took Alfred's hand and pulled at him, trying to encourage him to begin walking away – to no avail. "Come _on_. I don't want a repeat of last year."

"Ah, last year!" Ivan suddenly piped up, his eyes alight. "Last year's meeting was fun, da?" He put out his hand, presumably to clap Alfred on the shoulder—

Arthur grabbed Ivan's wrist, stopping him from putting his hand on Alfred.

"Don't touch him." He tossed Ivan's arm back at him.

Ivan merely appeared amused; Yao, however, looked unexpectedly sour.

"Of course Arthur won't let anyone lay a finger on his baby," he observed icily, "although it's alright if his baby goes around laying a finger – and a whole hand, oftentimes – on others."

Arthur turned towards Yao.

"Excuse me?" he asked frostily.

Yao simply glared at him.

"You heard me," he said. "You shield Alfred as if he were an innocent child, you make excuses for his behaviour as though he cannot help what he does and you will not stand for anyone other than yourself to point out his faults and berate him for his stupidity – when it is _others_ who must pick up the pieces left over from the damage of his actions. An Axis Power though he may have been, do you think I _enjoyed_ seeing what Alfred did to Kiku at the end of the war? Do you think I was _happy_ to see him tear apart Yong Soo, the bloodshed of which ended only last year?" Yao clung tighter to Ivan's sleeve. "Now he belittles what Ivan and I believe in and threatens us for it – and who knows who else he has set his sights upon! Who else will you damage to get your own way, Alfred? Thailand? Mongolia? Vietnam?"

"Alfred is not aggressive," Arthur snapped defensively. "He only fights if he is provoked."

Yao gave a snort.

"See, here you do it again," he sneered, "and speak on his behalf as if he has no voice when we all know that that is hardly the case."

"Arthur, I _can_ stand up for myself," Alfred said blandly.

"Even so," Arthur replied, "I won't have anyone speak about you like that."

"And so you prove my point!" Yao crowed, near-hysterical. "Or perhaps it is that I offend _you_ – I admit that I see plenty of you in him, Arthur, after all. The same arrogance, the same greed—"

"Yao-Yao, do not upset yourself," Ivan hummed. "You will see – their greed will be the end of them. Capitalism will devour them until there is nothing left."

"Capitalism is going to kick your stupid Communist values up the ass all the way back to the Middle Ages!" Alfred exploded.

"Ha, and what do you know about the Middle Ages, you ignorant pig?" Ivan challenged. "Shooting your mouth off about things you know nothing about, as usual."

There was a pause – everyone was still, completely silent, and a pin dropping would have echoed off the walls in that suspended moment—

Alfred and Ivan suddenly came together as if flung towards each other, Arthur shunted between them and Yao dragged forwards by the force.

"Alfred, stop, stop!" Matthew pleaded, hauling at Alfred's arm.

"Yes, _stop_!" Arthur shoved with all of his strength at Ivan, trying to drive him apart from Alfred.

Ivan merely grunted at the meagre force exerted by Arthur upon him, ploughed his hand into his ribs and slammed him into Matthew. Arthur and Matthew went tumbling to the floor in a tangled heap, ending up awkwardly against the wall with Matthew bleating that he'd lost his glasses en route. Clutching at his aching ribcage, Arthur disentangled himself from Matthew just in time to see Ivan punch Alfred straight in the face; there was a loud crack, something that sounded like splintering glass, and Alfred stumbled against the table on which the coffeemaker sat, grabbing at its edge to stop himself from toppling and using it to haul himself upright again.

"Ivan!" Yao was hauling at Ivan again – being knocked backwards with him when Alfred slammed himself into Ivan's gut.

"Sacré bleu, _enough_!" Francis grabbed Alfred from behind and held him as he tried to go after Ivan to lay into him again. "Alfred, disgrace yourself no further."

"The hell it's enough!" Alfred twisted madly in Francis's grasp as Arthur came to help restrain him. "I'll rip him apart!"

"Not today you won't," Arthur said in a low voice. He took Alfred's head in his hands and pressed his forehead to his own; he couldn't fail to notice that Alfred's nose was bleeding very badly. "That's enough now, alright?"

Alfred panted angrily for a moment or two; then closed his eyes and gave a nod, his shoulders slumping. Francis gave an audible sigh of relief and released him as Matthew joined them, rubbing at his left wrist with a pained expression on his face.

Arthur turned towards Ivan and Yao; they were standing back by themselves. Ivan was smiling that wide, sickly smile of his again and didn't appear to be in much pain from any of the blows Alfred might have dealt him during their little skirmish. He had his arm around Yao.

"That's enough," Arthur said again – to reiterate the point for the pair of them.

Ivan gave a slow nod, his smile never faltering.

"For now, yes," he agreed. "Come, Yao. We shall have some of your tea to calm us. To share what we have is always good."

Yao simply gave a nod and allowed himself to be pushed towards the door. It was only as he followed Ivan out that he paused and turned briefly, meeting Arthur's gaze.

"I am willing to admit that there is equal blame for what just happened," he said coldly.

Arthur gave him a curt nod.

"That's fair," he replied stiffly.

"Well, in that event, Arthur," Yao went on, "it really would do _you_ credit to keep your spoilt brat in hand. Spare the rod any longer and you might have to take responsibility for rather more than a fistfight."

**[Adult]**

"Honestly, Ivan is a piece of work," Arthur sighed, more to himself, as he rifled through the First Aid kit. His ribs felt bruised from the impact of Ivan's hand and smarted every time he breathed – truthfully, he didn't think that Ivan had actually hurt him on purpose, merely shoving him out of the way without really intending to cause him injury, but it still made him exceedingly irritable.

He glanced up at Alfred, who was sitting on the table's surface turning his glasses this way and that, and cleared his throat.

"Not that you are without blame, Alfred," he added.

Alfred sniffed – his nose was still bleeding horribly – and shrugged.

"I don't fucking care," he said easily. "He deserved all he got and more."

"I'm sure he'd say the same about you," Francis said coolly; he was a few feet away, tending to Matthew's wrist (which he had fallen awkwardly on when Ivan had flung he and Arthur into the wall). "And he certainly landed a good one."

Alfred sniffed again.

"The blood don't bother me," he said, "but my glasses..." He trailed off into a sudden bizarre cross between a groan and a growl. "Christ, he fucking _cracked_ them!" He somehow managed to squint and scowl at the same time as he examined his glasses, observing the clean splinter across the bottom right corner of the left lens. "Arthur, look what that bastard did to my glasses!"

"I know." Arthur was distracted pouring antiseptic onto a cotton pad. "Could you put them aside for a moment?"

"Hey, don't just brush it off!" Alfred sounded utterly outraged. "I can't see two feet in front of me without these and he _cracked_ them!"

"I'm not brushing it off," Arthur sighed patiently, taking the glasses away and carefully laying them to one side. "I know you can't see without them – but you're still bleeding and I need to clean you up." He put his hand to Alfred's face to steady him and brought the antiseptic-soaked pad towards his bleeding nose. "Hold still now, poppet."

Francis gave a snort of laughter at the term of address; Arthur shot a scowl at him just as he dabbed at Alfred's bleeding nose and Alfred promptly flinched away with a hiss.

"Alfred, hold _still_!" Arthur took Alfred's chin and forcibly held his head still even as Alfred tried to pull away again. "For Heaven's sake, you're not a baby. Do act like an adult, won't you?"

"But it _hurts_!" Alfred wailed. "I think he broke my nose!"

"He _didn't_ break your nose," Arthur said firmly, dabbing as gently at the blood as he could even so. "And I must say that you are not behaving in a very heroic manner. I don't see Matthew being silly about his injury, do you?"

"It _hurts_, Arthur," Alfred insisted irritably; but he held as still as he was able, clenching his fists on the table's surface and occasionally sucking in a hiss between gritted teeth.

Francis, done with seeing to Matthew's wrist (which had been neatly bandaged to give the twisted joint some support), came over to investigate; he picked up Alfred's glasses and examined them himself as Arthur wiped away the last of the settled blood from Alfred's top lip.

"That's quite a bad crack," Francis observed.

"Ain't it?" Alfred bit out. "I'm totally getting him to buy me some new ones."

Francis blinked at him as Matthew came to his side to look at the glasses himself, frowning worriedly.

"Al," Matthew said quietly, "it isn't really that bad. It can probably be repaired, you know."

"Don't care," Alfred seethed. "You break 'em, you buy 'em."

"But Alfred," Francis said, feigning surprise, "you are by far the richest amongst us as things stand. _Surely_ you can afford—"

"Francis, stop instigating," Arthur snapped. He handed Alfred a clean cotton pad. "Now hold this to your nose, Alfred, until the bleeding stops."

"Instigating?" Francis blinked innocently at Arthur. "I am merely stating the facts, Arthur, mon ami. Besides, I dislike Ivan as much as you both but I try to not deliberately pick fights with him regarding his way of life. He is a Communist – no matter which way Alfred phrases his demand, Ivan will never pay for his glasses. It is not in Ivan's mindset to understand why he should even though it was he who broke them."

Though he hated to admit it, Arthur knew that Francis had a point and offered no reply, quietly annoyed that Francis had had an answer for him; Alfred was more indignant, taking away the cotton pad so that he could talk.

"Well, I'll make him understand!" he insisted. "Damn Communism! The world just doesn't work on that whole everyone-sharing-all-they-have thing! Sure, it's a swell idea in principle but people aren't designed to think like that, right? I mean, survival of the fittest is more like Capitalism than Communism and that's just how it's gotta be. He either comes around to my view or I wipe him off the face of the Earth—"

"Alfred, that's to stop the bleeding," Arthur interrupted dismissively, pushing the pad back towards Alfred's face.

He often ignored or dismissed Alfred when he started talking like that; deep down he was perfectly aware that it was his way of ignoring the fact that Alfred had the potential to really be quite dangerous but he wasn't sure if it was so _easy_ to ignore his destructive threats because he didn't really think that sweet-natured, overly-friendly Alfred would honestly go through with them or if it was simply because Alfred often mimicked (perhaps subconsciously) behaviour he had seen in Arthur himself a long time ago. Stating that others would see things his way on pain of death...

Well, those were an Empire's words, certainly.

But they were also the words of youth. Arthur had been young when he had tortured Antonio, when he had wrested Europe's crown from Francis and when he had built himself a jigsaw-empire from whatever bits and pieces he could capture from around the globe. Age and war were both fine tutors in the ways of the world – and Alfred, too, was yet young and not fully-adult. Time still had things to teach him. He would learn and Arthur would be kind to him until he did.

Francis, however, seemed less forgiving towards Arthur's treatment of Alfred's behaviour.

"Arthur, you tell him that he is not a baby and then you treat him like one," he said scathingly. "Surely you must know that any threat that Alfred makes is not to be taken lightly. Why, Kiku—"

"Must you rub salt in those wounds?" Arthur spat, noticing that Alfred had flinched slightly at Kiku's name. "He did what he had to and, regardless, it was hardly his decision alone – I played my part in it and I would never deny that."

"Yes," Francis agreed frostily, "and that is fair enough blame to take a share in when we must all now live under the shadow of what he did."

"Hey, whoa, if Ivan would just back the hell off, I wouldn't _need_ to aim the things in his face!" Alfred cut in suddenly, his voice and entire stance very defensive.

"Francis, Alfred," Matthew piped up, "please let's not fight. We are still allies, after all."

"Yes – some of us more than others," Francis observed dryly, still looking fixedly at Arthur.

Arthur couldn't help but bristle beneath Francis' needling gaze, thinking it rude of him to comment on who Arthur chose to ally himself with when _he_ was constantly coming to the aid of Francis himself because Ludwig had turned up on his doorstep with a gun again.

"As you well know, Alfred and I have a Special Relationship," Arthur said shortly. "And, as the "thoroughly-Churchillian" creature of Ivan's observational scope, I will abide by the terms of that agreement. Anyone who is Alfred's enemy is therefore my enemy."

"A political arrangement – something of a _marriage_ in your case – does not equate to obligation," Francis pointed out coolly. "We are adults, Arthur – not schoolchildren taking sides."

Arthur merely snorted in disbelief.

"Both of those world wars were cases of exactly that," he said. "Taking sides, I mean. I regret to say that it appears to me that it is a habit adults simply do not grow out of."

He turned away from Francis to signify that he was done conversing with him, giving his attention to Alfred again; Alfred, who was fidgeting with the cotton pad irritably, glaring at Francis in a rather reproachful manner, instead of using it to stem the blood trickling from his nose again.

"Alfred, for the _third_ time, that's to stop the bleeding!" Arthur snatched the pad away and began to dab roughly at Alfred's nose himself.

"Ow, don't, _don't_!" Alfred tried to twist away from him with the panic of a little boy. "That hurts!"

"Well, if you'd hold still—!"

"Arthur, you're _hurting_ me!"

Alfred blindly shoved at Arthur, catching him in the ribs in the same place Ivan had. It didn't have the force of Ivan's hand but a blow twice in same place made the impact shudder through his body with an awful echo; Arthur stumbled with a pained grunt and wrapped his arm around his ribcage as he held his balance against the table.

"Artie!" Alfred was off the table and flapping around him in a panic immediately. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"I know, I know," Arthur replied in a low voice, shooing him away with his other hand; the impact was still reeling through him. "Let me alone a moment, Alfred."

Alfred fell back, worrying at his lip; Matthew came level with him, also appearing concerned.

"Arthur, are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine." Arthur willed himself to straighten up; damn, why did Alfred have to have hit him in exactly the same place that Ivan had? It made him look pathetic, to be curling up after a little push on Alfred's part – but he couldn't help it if he no longer had the strength to take and trade blows with superpowers. "Alfred just... caught me by surprise, that's all. Not to worry, Matthew." He exhaled deeply and rubbed at his ribcage. "Dash it all, Alfred – you really need to start remembering how strong you are."

"I know." Alfred wiped at his bloody nose on the sleeve of his suit jacket and approached Arthur again, this time more tentatively. "But I'm honestly sorry. I didn't mean to push you, I just sort of... panicked and lashed out at you, I mean—"

"I know," Arthur sighed – he refused to look at Francis, who was standing back with his arms folded and an infuriating 'I-told-you-so' expression on his face. "It's alright. I'm sorry too. I thought you were just whining to be awkward – I didn't know I was hurting you as much as all that."

Alfred gave an offhand shrug, looking away for a moment; before he finally gave a sigh of his own and glanced down at the floor.

"Look, I'm... I'm sorry about everything," he said quietly. He looked quickly up at Arthur, then at Francis and Matthew. "To all of you. I know... things are different now, particularly between myself and Ivan and I know it's made things difficult for everyone, I know that... the future seems kinda uncertain. I didn't mean for things to be like this, I guess I just... I didn't think that what I did back in '45 was gonna cause problems for everyone."

Arthur blinked at him. It had to be the first time Alfred had ever really apologised for the repercussions of his decision to unleash a completely new kind of warfare upon Japan – that he had acknowledged that it had made a lot of things worse in the long run. Of course Alfred had never been terribly _proud_ of what he had done to Kiku – he was not a malicious or particularly cruel person, after all – but he was very much a believer in things merely being a means to an end and the end itself being what ultimately mattered. He had never appeared to have even noticed that the August of 1945 ushering in the dawn of the Nuclear Age had not necessarily been a good thing – not for Arthur, not for Francis, not for Ludwig, not, in fact, for anyone who wasn't Alfred F. Jones himself.

Ivan Braginsky benefitting from it was, naturally, absolutely out of the question.

Still... Arthur had noticed it before. The war had changed Alfred. Not a lot – it was barely noticeable, really, to anyone who did not know him well – but it was there. He had been the inexperienced rookie amongst the Allies, all-too-eager to share his all-too-often idiotic ideas, an attention-seeking pest besotted with the idea that he would be a great hero, chided and babied and despaired of all-at-once by Arthur, who had always felt that he was probably to blame for the way Alfred behaved.

But, somehow, amidst it all – amidst his plans to make everyone his back-up and his not even knowing where Kiku lived – Alfred had somehow sort of... grown up. Just a little bit – but grown up nonetheless. It had not been a child who had said nothing, promised nothing, only squeezed Arthur's hand briefly, on the night of June 5th, 1944, right before he departed for the American ship. It had not been a child who had silently signed the order to end the war in August instead of letting it drag on another nine months; it had, after all, ultimately been Alfred's decision. Arthur had raised him and Arthur had already signed but his signature alone had not been enough – it had been Alfred's turn to have in his hand the power to choose the fate of another.

It had not been a child who had won Arthur's heart a second time amidst the uncertainty of the bloodiest war in the entirety of history. A child Alfred had been the first time, promising Arthur everything with his big eyes and wide smile and an embrace as endless as his lands. The second time, he had had nothing to offer – nothing but the future, as unstable as it was.

1942, when they had had no idea if they were even going to live through it all.

Well, they had lived and they had won – and _this_ was what Alfred had to give him now.

"It's alright, Alfred." Arthur closed the gap of a few steps between them and put his arms around Alfred; sucking up his pride just for now, for usually he wouldn't have embraced Alfred in front of anyone, least of all Francis. "I know you didn't mean for any of this. I never trusted Ivan and even I couldn't have foreseen... well, _this_."

"It's just so dumb, you know?" Alfred sighed, hugging Arthur back and resting his chin on top of his head. "We all fought the Axis together and now..."

Arthur was silent for a moment; he looked over Alfred's shoulder first at Matthew, who sort of shrugged at him, a sad half-smile on his face, and then at Francis, who was still holding Alfred's cracked glasses. Francis met his gaze coolly – but it was notable that he didn't look away, that he hadn't made his excuses by now and stalked out with his hand clamped around Matthew's arm. He seemed to have been sobered, too, by Alfred's apology. He was still on their side – as guilty of it as they were.

"Taking sides, as I said," Arthur muttered, nodding briefly at Francis. "We might as well all be children for the way we behave." He squirmed a bit in Alfred's grasp – the American's arm was uncomfortably close to his bruised ribs. "Still, it is nice to know that you've grown up, however slightly."

"Me, grow up?" Alfred laughed. "Dream on, Artie! I'm never gonna get old and boring like you!"

Arthur simply shook his head and patted Alfred's back.

"Peter Pan would be proud of you," he muttered dryly.

**[Afraid]**

"Whoa, careful, careful!"

Arthur felt Alfred's arm around him, hoisting him up as he stumbled on the top step; he merely laughed, patting Alfred's chest affectionately as he got his balance again.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," he insisted. "I can... I can walk on my own."

"You say that but I've had to pick you up twice and _stop_ you falling about another six times," Alfred griped. "I guess I shoulda known better than to suggest we go for a drink to mellow us out after that stupid meeting..."

"I can hold my drink just fine, thankyou," Arthur informed him snippily, squirming out of Alfred's grasp as they reached the bedroom door. He turned towards him and swayed a little bit as he put his hands on Alfred's shoulders (partly to steady himself, admittedly). "See? I'm... I'm just fine, Alfred."

"You certainly _can't_ hold your—"

Ugh. Arthur might have been a little drunk but he was in enough of a right mind to know that he didn't want a lecture from a brat who preferred dunking chocolate-chip cookies in milk to drinking a stiff glass of gin; he pushed himself up on his toes and cut Alfred off mid-sentence with a kiss, insisting on it until he felt, with some satisfaction, Alfred begin to kiss back with a resigned but practiced, pleasant enthusiasm.

He let Alfred push him up against the closed bedroom door, hearing him scrabbling blindly for the handle; presumably he eventually found it, for the door suddenly swung open and Arthur went toppling backwards, flailing. Alfred caught him before he fell too far, wrapping both strong arms around and under his back. Arthur clung to him for dear life as Alfred lifted him upright again and then higher still, clear off the floor completely so that he held Arthur about a head taller than himself.

"How is it?" he asked, smiling up at him as he flicked on the bedroom light with a sharp jab of his elbow. "You used to pick me up like this when I was a little kid, right over your head like I was flying."

Arthur leaned down and kissed him.

"I expect you were terrified that I would drop you," he said as their mouths parted.

"Nope." Alfred kissed _him_. "I wasn't afraid at all."

Another kiss.

"Liar."

And another.

"No, I really wasn't. I knew you wouldn't drop me, Arthur."

Arthur was touched by the sentiment of Alfred's words but he still couldn't help but tease him:

"Well, I suppose you weren't anywhere near as heavy back then."

"Ah, so mean!" Alfred kissed Arthur's chin. "And here I always thought you were nicer when you had a little bit of alcohol inside you!"

Arthur smiled at him. He couldn't deny that he _felt_ nicer after a drink or two and tonight was absolutely no exception. It was really quite pleasant up here, higher than he would usually be and secure in Alfred's strong grasp; the light was good, not too bright, and he had that lovely floating feeling that came in part from his being slightly drunk and in part simply from utter contentment. There was a sweet simmering warmth low down in his belly which seeped into every part of him, singing in every bone and shuddering in every nerve and scampering silver like a frost over his skin, and it all made him feel oddly calm and compliant. Whatever Alfred wanted tonight was fine with him. If he wanted sex, Arthur didn't mind. If he wanted to cuddle up together and go to sleep, Arthur didn't mind. If he just wanted to stand here all night exactly like this, Arthur didn't mind. He was bossy in the bedroom, very much in charge even though he usually bottomed, but tonight... nothing bothered him. Nothing at all.

"What do you want, Alfred?" he asked in a low voice, kissing Alfred on the forehead. "I'll show you just how nice I can be. We'll do anything you like."

Alfred laughed and shook his head.

"You're so funny when you're drunk," he said gently. "You're like a totally different person. You'd never say that if you were sober."

"But I'm honest when I'm drunk, too," Arthur pointed out candidly. "It's only when I'm sober that I say things I don't mean."

"That's true." Alfred stepped forwards and hoisted Arthur up onto the dresser, brushing aside a comb and a few tiepins and cufflinks as he sat him on its surface. "...Well, why don't we just see where this goes?"

"It's the most peculiar thing," Arthur said, running his thumb over Alfred's smile as the American leaned in close to him. "I always like your ideas so much better when I'm drunk, too."

"I always save my best brainwaves for when you're more likely to agree with their brilliance."

"So you have the logic of a drunk man?"

"Mm." Alfred put his hand to the back of Arthur's neck and pulled him close. "And the love of one."

Arthur succumbed to one kiss before pulling back just long enough to speak again:

"I love you _all_ the time, you fool," he chided softly. "Unconditionally."

He would never thank Francis for spreading the word, but the truth was that, when he had had a drink, like most people, Arthur was a little bit more... well, _wanton_ wasn't quite the right term, but perhaps _uninhibited_ was. Sober, and he scoffed at the slightest show of passion; smashed, and he had one leg hooked around Alfred's waist and both arms flung around his neck. Alfred didn't appear to mind at all, only loosening himself from Arthur's hold in order to quickly unbutton his black suit jacket and shrug out of it, managing to continue kissing him all the while. It was Arthur himself who broke it a moment later, leaning back against the dresser mirror for air; Alfred reached for him and began to help him out of his own grey blazer. Arthur fumbled dazedly with his dark blue tie, needing Alfred's sober hands to unknot it for him.

Alfred kissed him as he tossed the tie aside before muttering something about all of Arthur's damned layers as he slipped one finger under Arthur's grey silk waistcoat and plucked at the left strap of his braces.

"Get to it, then, old boy," Arthur encouraged, unable to resist pointing out the fact that Alfred was also wearing braces by taking hold of one of them and stretching it just enough that it snapped back against Alfred's shoulder with an audible _crack_.

"Ow!" Alfred clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Holy _hell_, Artie!"

"Well, then, get to it," Arthur said again; he leaned forwards on the dresser and wrapped his legs – somewhat suggestively – around Alfred's waist.

"Aha, your first mistake, Mr Bond!" Alfred exclaimed gleefully; he looped his own arms under Arthur's and lifted him clean off the dresser, barely needing to grasp him with Arthur's legs hooked so securely around him, and brought him over to the bed, dropping him onto the mattress on his back.

Stunned, dazed, still rather drunk, Arthur blinked up at him.

"You've read James Bond?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

"Mm-hmm!" Alfred planted his hands either side of Arthur's shoulders and leaned over him. "Mattie lent it to me. Said you'd given it to him and that I should read it."

"And did you?"

"Yeah, about three months later. It wasn't bad. Not as cool as Flash Gordon or Superman, though!" Alfred looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Or Batman or Captain America or Dick Tracy or—"

"You see, this is exactly why I gave it to Matthew and not to you, you obnoxious twat!"

"Even so, I was kinda jealous," Alfred said cheerfully, unbuttoning Arthur's waistcoat. "You're supposed to like me best out of everyone ever, remember?"

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed.

"How I manage to put up with you is beyond my understanding," he said. "It's something of a paradox, really."

"It's because I'm cool." Alfred unfastened Arthur's braces, letting them bounce loosely up to his shoulders.

Arthur snorted.

"Hardly."

"It's because I'm sexy."

"Alfred, you wouldn't know sexy if it danced in front of you wearing nothing but a lacy garter-belt."

"Then..." Alfred paused at the second button on Arthur's shirt. "Then I guess it's because you love me, Artie."

Arthur opened his eyes again. Alfred was grinning at him; he looked very happy, as if there was absolutely nowhere he would rather be than here – in dull, dreary, debt-ridden post-war Great Britain. It was strange to Arthur, who resented the bubble of a world he was now trapped in; there was no escape for _him_, that much he knew, his Glorious Empire having been reduced a snow-globe of grey streets and half-Blitzed architecture. But Alfred... His culture had just come into its own, evolutions of technology and entertainment unfurling fast like bright flowers and brilliant stars, full-length animated movies in beautiful colour, comic-book superheroes with their own radio shows, all kinds of never-before-heard music, Coca-Cola and T-Birds and grimy diners that stayed open all night, tiny twinkling gems that captured all the come-and-go of life in the United States of America, the world's brand-new superpower. That was _Alfred's_ Glorious Empire – and yet he didn't mind being amidst the ruins of Arthur's instead, as long as he was with him.

"Yes, I suppose that must be it," he said weakly. "And the same for you?"

Alfred winked at him.

"Yeah, well, you know, lucky I'm such a hero to be able to suck it up," he said lightly, a little laugh embroidered onto his words. "How boring and uncool you are, I mean."

Arthur looked away, Alfred's words – however joking his tone – giving some calibre to what he had just considered.

"What?" Alfred blinked at him, seeming to notice the sudden change in his mood. "What's the matter? I didn't offend you, did I?"

Arthur shook his head, still looking at the wall.

"No, it isn't that," he said. "It's just... well, if you're bored or unhappy here, then... you can go home, you know. I would understand. I mean, I don't even have a television or whatever you call it—"

"Aww, man, Artie!" Alfred was shaking his head at him in disbelief. "All these years and only _now_, right at this very _instant_, you start taking what I say seriously?" He gave a sigh. "Look, I don't care _where_ I am when I'm with you. I totally mean that. The war taught me that, if nothing else. We were in some pretty godawful situations back then and even though, yeah, it would have been better if we hadn't been in them at all, it was okay because I was with you and I knew that if we were together and we put our _heads_ together, everything would be alright. I know that all just sounds like lame sentimental sappy stuff but it's the truth. Yeah, I could be at home sprawled on the couch in my underwear watching _I Love Lucy_, but you know what? I'd sure miss you – boringness and all."

"That's... that's very sweet of you, Alfred," Arthur said quietly, glancing back at him. He reached up a hand to cup Alfred's cheek for a moment, matching his lovely smile as best he could. "I'd miss you too – and I _will_ when you go home next week."

"Argh, don't talk about it!" Alfred began to swiftly undo Arthur's buttons again. "We still have a few more days – so let's make them count, yeah?"

"Y-yes, alright."

Still unfastening Arthur's shirt (doing it blind), Alfred leaned down towards him and kissed him first on the mouth and then downwards, trailing over his jaw and jugular and right down to the base of his throat; he traced the hollow of it with his tongue and Arthur arched upwards into him as the last of his buttons came undone and his shirt fell loosely away from the curve of his spine. Drunk or not, he often couldn't help reacting in ways like this to things that Alfred did to him – not because Alfred was particularly masterful in his ministrations (he was actually somewhat clumsy and over-enthusiastic a lot of the time) but because he loved him and the mere fact that he did, coupled with his knowing that Alfred returned it, made even the tiniest touch, the ghost of a breath or the faintest whisper of his name in his ear, resonate more deeply in him than the roughest, most careless fuck he cared to remember (or _could_ remember – admittedly he had spent half of his time as a pirate on the high seas absolutely intoxicated). Despite his strength, Alfred was never that rough with him – and yet the small gesture of Alfred brushing a lock of hair away from his face shook him to his very core with far more force than wrestling with half-bound Antonio or trading his body to Francis in exchange for marked maps or drinking himself under the table with Gilbert and staying there all night with him. Before Alfred, before 1942, he had merely used sex as another meaningless interaction, a bargaining tool in an endless, empty cycle of flitting between lovers who didn't love him and who he didn't love in return, choosing them (and they him) based only on what could be gained from the liaison.

Until Alfred – until 1942 – he had not known what it was to be made love to; and perhaps it had merely been telling of the changes the crumbling of his Empire had brought on him – the fact that he had been receptive to the idea of it at all – but he had looked at Alfred that first time in something really akin to wonderment. It had been so obvious in everything Alfred had done that he completely adored him – and _he_ had been overwhelmed, too, by the realisation that every slightest fingerprint Alfred left on him mattered more than making Antonio blow him at gunpoint or being thrown roughly over a barrel of rum by Francis at three in the morning because...

Because it hadn't been empty like those times. He loved Alfred back and so it wasn't about taking pleasure or causing pain, it wasn't about selfishness or power or victory. It was about wanting to be close to him, as close as possible, to share the world that he knew with him – just as with every time since and as with now.

Alfred's mouth drifted lower, over the lines of muscle in Arthur's narrow chest, down towards his—

"Holy crap!" Alfred recoiled violently, his blue eyes huge and horrified behind his glasses. "Arthur, your... your _ribs_!"

"My...?" Arthur propped himself up on his elbows, his stomach already sinking. He hadn't had time today to inspect the damage done to him by Ivan and Alfred but the place of impact had been throbbing with a bone-deep ache every time he breathed all day, barely dulled by the alcohol swimming in his system now, and he was impressed with the notion that, judging by Alfred's expression, it probably _looked_ even worse than it felt.

"Oh God..." Alfred gingerly reached towards him, tracing his fingertips along the uneven edge of the bruise. "Did... did _I_ do that to you when I pushed you?"

Arthur didn't answer for a long moment, looking down at his ribcage; the bruise was dark and hideous, having had to time to ferment and gather all day beneath his skin, at its best curdled shades of purple and blue and at its very worst near-black. He supposed that it looked worse because he'd been hit twice, both times by individuals with considerable physical strength, and because it was in a place where there was little body-fat to take the brunt of the impact – but even so (and even though he had been injured far worse than this in wars), he was slightly dismayed at how bad it looked.

Alfred had gone very pale.

"I didn't realise I pushed you that hard," he said quietly. "I thought you looked like you were in pain but..."

"Alfred..." Arthur trailed off, derailing himself deliberately as his mind caught up with his mouth. He had been about to say that it was alright, it wasn't just Alfred who had shoved him, that Ivan had in fact already hit him in the ribs and had done it a lot harder, not that Alfred had even noticed Ivan pushing him because _he'd_ been so wrapped up in trying to punch Ivan's lights out, but the point remained that Alfred, in fact, was probably less to blame for Arthur's injury than Ivan was and so it was alright.

Except it wasn't. Or it _wouldn't_ be, at least, if he told Alfred that – if he casually said that it was _Ivan_ who had really hurt him.

He kept his mouth shut. Alfred looked utterly devastated and it broke Arthur's heart to allow him to think that it was him who had caused the bruise all by himself but he couldn't say anything, he _knew_ he couldn't, without Alfred flying off the handle and storming straight round to Ivan's for Round Two. The tension between them today had accelerated, coming to a head with fists, and it was uncomfortably obvious that Alfred and Ivan's "difference of opinions" was beginning to reach a dangerous level. Arthur rather despised Ivan too and hated to cover for him but he simply _couldn't_ give Alfred any ammunition, at least not over so something that was, really, trivial. After all, though Arthur didn't like to strip Ivan of guilt as a general rule, he was fairly certain that Ivan really _hadn't_ deliberately hurt him.

"I'm sorry." Alfred grabbed his hand and looked at him pleadingly. "Arthur, I'm so sorry. I swear I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"I know, Alfred." Arthur looked away from him, unable to meet his gaze and feeling horribly guilty, perhaps even worse than Alfred himself did. "Don't concern yourself about it, it's only a bruise – and I know you didn't do it on purpose."

"Of course I didn't!" Alfred cried. "I would never hurt you on purpose!" He bit at his bottom lip. "God, I've been saying that so much recently, I sound like an abusive husband or something, always apologising when it's totally fucking obvious that I'm going to hurt you again—"

"Alfred, for heaven's sake," Arthur groaned. He flopped onto his back again and closed his eyes, his shirt still lying open. "You're not _abusing_ me. You're just thoughtless and grab or pull or push me too hard sometimes. I suppose you forget that I don't have the strength I used to and that you, by contrast, can bench-press a Jeep."

"Even so..." Alfred wilted and lay down next to him; Arthur glanced at him quickly, seeing that he was loosening the knot of his crimson tie one-handed. "There's no excuse for it. I'm sorry I'm not more careful with you."

Arthur gave a snort and shut his eyes again.

"I'm not a priceless antique vase," he muttered.

There was a long moment of silence between them. Arthur was quite aware that the mood had been rather thoroughly ruined and was annoyed. Alfred was probably going to be jittery about even _touching_ him for the next three days or so and he didn't even have that warm-pleasant-dreamy-swimming feeling anymore – instead he just felt tired and irritable and pissed off at Ivan—

"Arthur?"

"Mm?" He couldn't even be bothered to fan out his vocabulary peacock-fashion as he usually did – which was never a good sign.

There was another long, uncomfortable pause – as though Alfred was screwing up his courage in order to speak.

"A-are you... um, are you... _afraid_ of me?"

Arthur opened his eyes once more. Alfred was looking fixedly up at the bedroom ceiling, his fingers twisted tightly together in a nervous knot.

"And... and be honest," he added. "Don't worry about my feelings. I need to know."

"I..." Arthur sighed deeply. He'd always been hoping that Alfred would never ask him something like that – it was easier to act, to support, to tell him what he wanted to hear when not on the spot himself.

Just ten years ago, it would have been different. Ten years ago, Alfred had still not proved himself with those bombs – he had still not shown anyone, least of all Ivan, exactly what kind of destruction he was capable of. Ten years ago, a simple honest 'No, Alfred' would have sufficed.

But this... This was the future Alfred had promised him back then and it had come with strings attached. Francis was right – it was _Alfred_ who had made everything different, the strange young new thing, the non-European bastard-child of mutated European cultures clashing and carbonating within his core.

Arthur was terrified, partly because he knew that, as Yao had suggested, he had to take responsibility for Alfred and everything he did. He was his teacher and his lover and his always-ally.

"Yes," Arthur said finally. "Yes, I am afraid. I'm afraid of things as they are now, how you made everything different and more dangerous than ever – I'm afraid of the future because you and Ivan are constantly on the verge of killing one another and taking everyone else with you, because I have no idea what's going to happen from one day to the next, because I know all it would take would be for either you or Ivan to just _snap_ and then nothing else would matter to either of you, only each other's ruin. All those things scare me and it's because of you, because of what you did in 1945."

Alfred didn't say anything. Arthur reached over and took one of his hands, tightening his own around it. Alfred seemed to hesitate, then squeezed back tentatively.

"But," Arthur continued gently, placing his other hand to his bruise as though to make it disappear, "I'm not afraid of _you_, Alfred."

* * *

Argh, so romantic, I make myself sick sometimes, hahaha. XD

Some dates:

The first James Bond novel (by British author Ian Fleming) was _Casino Royale_, first published in **1953**. This fic is, of course, set in 1954, so it would have been a brand-spanking-new book when Arthur gave Matthew a copy.

_I Love Lucy_, starring Lucille Ball, was a black-and-white sitcom, one of the very first of its kind, broadcast on American television between **1951-1957**. It was so popular that a follow-up series to it, _The Lucille Ball Show_, ran from 1957-1960.

**June 5****th****, 1944** – The night before the D-Day Landings in Normandy, France, on June 6th. D-Day was the first leg of the final operation to take Europe back from the Nazis, beginning with the liberation of France in the July of 1944. By May 1945, Germany had fallen and only Japan, refusing to surrender, was left fighting the Allies. It was decided that to defeat Japan by regular warfare would cause the war to drag on for at least another nine months and so there was discussion between the USA and the UK about ending the war using the USA's recently-developed atomic weapons. The UK agreed to using them and the USA dropped two bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the 6th and 9th of August, 1945. Japan surrendered unconditionally and the Second World War came to an official end.

You may have noticed that Russia was not consulted about the bombs. This was partly what caused the Cold War to arise in the first place – the USA, the UK and the USSR had been what was known as the Big Three of the Allied Powers and Russia was somewhat miffed, to put it lightly, that the USA and the UK had gone "behind its back", not sharing any information about the bombs or the proposal to use them on Japan. This caused a rift of distrust between the USSR and the other two of the Big Three and, by the time the war ended, Russia was looking to be almost as much of a problem as Germany had been. Russia was the second country in the world to go nuclear after the United States, testing weapons in 1949 (the same year China went Communist – 1949 wasn't a great year for the USA!).

As for the UK... Well, not only were we the third country to go nuclear (in 1952 – so Arthur is, in fact, _also_ nuclear in this fic), it's also a lesser-known fact that, during WWII, UK-USSR relations were _worse_ than USA-USSR relations (try saying _that_ when you're drunk!). Winston Churchill, Britain's Prime Minister for the majority of the war, _hated_ Communism with a passion and didn't much like Stalin, either. Part of the reason that Churchill was voted out in early 1945 was because it looked like he wanted to start _another_ war with Russia after Germany was defeated and nobody really wanted that, not to mention that the UK couldn't afford it. The UK was not really directly involved in any of the proxy-conflicts of the Cold War (aside from defending the parts of Germany it was controlling), but it firmly established itself as an ally of the USA and, therefore, an enemy of Russia – which is probably why it scrambled to go nuclear in 1952, only three years after Russia.

As a dreadfully-fun fact, Churchill reigned as Prime Minister a second time – from **1951-1955**. He is indeed Prime Minister at the time this fic is taking place. Sorry about your luck there, Ivan. (Oh, as an aside, Churchill was the guy who came up with the term 'Special Relationship' to describe USA-UK relations. Ah, Churchill – the original USUK 'fangirl'. XD).

Lastly, Yao mentions the Korean War, which took place between **1950-1953**.

Will try to get the next chapter up on time on Friday this week! Friday, incidentally, will be 3rd September, an exact 71 years since the official start of WWII when the UK and France declared war on Germany on September 3rd, 1939. Anyone who might have followed me to this section from the _Death Note_ section – and is therefore familiar with _Poison Apple_ – may be pleased to know that my partner-in-crime Narroch and I are at it again, premiering the first chapter of our brand-new epic of Teh Gay on Friday just in time for the WWII anniversary. Our new rambling, epically-gay bandwagon-a-thon is, of course, _Hetalia_, mostly focusing on USUK/UKUS but with a few other pairings on the side. The title is _Pangaea_ and it will be appearing on mah profile on Friday!

Yayz!

RR xXx

P.S: 'Nyet' is the Russian for 'no', btdubs!

P.P.S: To **jesusofsuburbia2o2o** – Some RoChu in this chapter for you. No rimming, though. Don't be too disappointed!


	6. I

I know, I know, I'm late again! I'm sorry, guys! I'm here now! Again, I hope you feel that this chapter was worth the wait!

I was in London earlier this week (Englanding again, lololololol) so I was spending the time I should have been working on this going around the Tower of London and trying to clamber on a lion at Nelson's Column (and failing miserably) and totally-not-LOLing at Big Ben. Oh, and visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum, of course. ^^ Turns out that painting I invented, _The Descent of Empire_, still doesn't exist. Go figure.

(London is obsessed with three things at the moment: The 2012 Olympics, our bid for the 2018 World Cup – because we apparently want to prove how spectacularly rubbish we are at football even on our home turf – and the Battle of Britain/Blitz. This last thing(s) happened in 1940 so it's the 70-year anniversary so everywhere London is like "Hey gaiz remember the Blitz and how awesum it was lol?". Still, I did learn from this trip that you can still see the damage to Blitz did to the V&A's exterior – and you really _can_ actually still see it. It's not that bad, really, but it's there.)

Thanks to: **PinkPanther123, Genki-angel-chan, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, Axxi, Kuzzka, darkknight, hexazebra, TheWonderBunny, egoXlockheart, Blue, Chibi Chibi Sami **(I apologise – I think I've been spelling it 'Sama' for a while now and I really have no idea why...)**, Obsessed Authoress, Kang Jae Gyu, Anastasya Debbie, YourFloatingAngel, itsumo212, OneWithManyNames, meow, La Requinne, LithiumKiss, Prestidigitations, nocco, suzako, Anime18Emo, Author and Co, cax **and **Plate Captain**!

Also, thanks to everyone who read the first chapter of _Pangaea_ following my shameless plug here! Anyone interested who hasn't read it, it is now on my profile, the whole one-chapter-so-far of it...

And now, because it had to happen sometime...

A is For…

**[Arrogance]**

"Man, I am _so_ pissed off at Ivan, you have no idea!"

"I think I have," Arthur sighed, looking up at Alfred briefly from where he was occupied making the bed. "You've been standing in front of the mirror examining your glasses from every angle imaginable for the best part of ten minutes. Shirtless, I might add – although I admit I have no idea why."

"Why I'm examining my glasses or why I'm shirtless?"

"Shirtless – or _still_ shirtless, at least. I know why you're examining your glasses. You've been harping on about Ivan breaking them since we woke up."

Alfred waved his hand dismissively at him, turning his head to the left again and adjusting his frames before giving a sigh of defeated disgust.

"Well, I thought maybe Mattie was right and it wasn't that bad a crack," he said moodily, leaning closer still to his reflection in the dresser mirror, "but it totally is! Look at it!"

He whirled decisively towards Arthur, one hand on his hip and using his other to tap at his cracked glasses to bring them to Arthur's attention.

"Check it out," he said flatly. "That's fifty bucks' worth of cosmetic damage right there."

Arthur looked up again boredly, halfway through folding his green pyjamas that Alfred hated. He paused, his entire stance stiffening, as his eyes met with Alfred. It was stupid, really – he had been looking at him all morning, practically tripping over him on the way to the bathroom and side-stepping him in the kitchen and half-watching him swan about the bedroom without a shirt on (having rather promptly spilt coffee all the down the front of the T-shirt he'd put on before breakfast). It wasn't as though Alfred really looked any different to the way he had five minutes ago, it wasn't as though seeing him only half-clothed was a big deal (given that Alfred almost always slept topless), it wasn't even that he was feeling particularly horny or sensitive to the fact that Alfred was shirtless...

But something made him stop. He fell completely still and just looked at Alfred helplessly, utterly admiring him. He tried not to make a habit of staring at Alfred since he had his pride as a former Empire and his status as a non-schoolgirl to maintain – not to mention the fact that it would just go straight to Alfred's head, the arrogant twat... Still, he liked to look at him sometimes, just quietly, secretly, so that Alfred wouldn't tease him about it. Sometimes it was nice to admire him from a distance like this, to study him like a work of art or a piece of lovely literature; the soft slope of his broad shoulders, the gentle curves of muscle in his arms and chest, the shape of his large hands, the straightness of his waist and the way weight settled on his hips so that his blue jeans rested low and snug and comfortable on them, low enough that the beginning of the downy trail of hair was visible under his navel, narrow and pointing downwards like a javelin beneath the denim waistband – and below that, the defined shape of his backside (that Arthur would never admit to ogling but, regardless, made a campaign of drawing attention to by somewhat-implying that Alfred had a fat arse – to which Alfred replied that he should stop looking at it, then, and Arthur denied having ever set eyes on it and so began the cycle again), his long legs and they _were_ long, they went on for weeks if he was wearing the right trousers...

It was times like these, really taking notice of how Alfred looked, that made Arthur think that he was very lucky to have managed to snag Alfred for himself. Sometimes he wondered what Alfred saw in him – or, at least, what had attracted him. Certainly they didn't compare as far as looks went and Alfred complained about eighty per cent of the time that Arthur was grumpy and boring and not "cool", whatever "cool" meant to begin with (he was fairly sure that it was dreadful slang meaning "good" or "satisfactory", judging by the contexts Alfred used it in). Of course, Alfred also constantly insisted that he loved him – but sometimes Arthur wondered why. Why did Alfred love him? Why was Alfred attracted to him when he could probably have his pick of anyone (that he hadn't made an enemy of, anyway)?

Admittedly he had been considering it a little more often lately, wondering if Alfred would stay with him as he weakened, wondering if, beneath the brilliant smile, Alfred was beginning to grow to resent him, to resent the millstone around his neck he was becoming. Bombed-out and indebted by the war, Arthur really had nothing to offer Alfred at all but his loyalty and he was truly beginning to wonder if that would be enough to keep him. He wondered and he worried and he knew it was starting to become obvious, especially these past few days – Alfred had sprung the whole "Are you alright?" thing on him a few times, meaning that even _he_, oblivious as he was, had noticed the melancholy in Arthur's mood of late.

Alfred, meanwhile, was going on about it not just being about cosmetic damage of course, the only reason he _wore_ the damn things in the first place was because he _needed_ them, it wasn't as if anyone wore glasses just because they looked good on them, and he really was going to need either a new pair or get these ones fixed because even if no-one else could see the crack, _he_ could when he was looking through them and it was seriously annoying—

"Arthur!"

Arthur jumped, shaking his head to clear it.

"I-I'm sorry, what?" he said dazedly, blinking at Alfred. "I apologise, I wasn't... I wasn't listening."

"I know that!" Alfred exclaimed. He quirked an eyebrow, suddenly smirking. "You were _staring_ at me!"

Arthur felt his face heat up with a blush and distractedly busied himself folding his pyjamas again, shoving them under the pillow with more force than was necessary.

"Don't be preposterous," he said, determined not to meet Alfred's gaze. "Of course I wasn't staring at you."

"Yes you were!" Alfred was grinning like a fool. "I saw you! You were looking me up and down like you... like a..." He frowned, apparently having trouble coming up with a suitable simile. "Well, whatever. The point is that you were _totally_ staring so don't even deny it!"

"I _will_ deny it because I wasn't," Arthur said shortly. "And that's that."

Alfred put his arms up behind his head as though stretching, glancing sidelong at his own reflection in the mirror.

"The thing is, though, Artie," he said, almost apologetically, "you kind of were." He turned towards the mirror again, looking himself up and down in an obvious, admiring manner. "Not that I can blame you – I mean, I _am_ damn good-looking. Who could resist this?"

"Oh, stop it," Arthur sighed irritably, smoothing down the sheets. "You really need to learn a thing or two about modesty, you know."

"Ha, but you don't _deny_ that I'm damn good-looking!" Alfred said triumphantly, not taking his eyes off his own reflection. "Jeez, you said last night that I wouldn't know sexy if it danced in front of me but I dunno." He struck an over-exaggerated pin-up girl pose. "Reckon I could give Marilyn a run for her money?"

Arthur merely rolled his eyes at him. He might have known that Alfred wasn't being serious – certainly he could be rather arrogant at times but he wasn't really hung up on his own looks, Arthur had to admit. In fact, he was fairly certain that Alfred was actually more or less oblivious to how attractive he was (although he _did_ expect him to notice one day and henceforth never shut up about it – today might have been the day, after all).

"Huh." Alfred let his arms drop to his sides heavily again as he turned towards Arthur. "I see the alcohol has worn off."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur asked stiffly.

"Give me a break – you're always all over me when you're drunk and totally narky and mean when you're not. It's like you _suppress_ your insatiable lust for me when you're sober, you know?"

"Insatiable lust?" Arthur repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"Right!" Alfred bounded over to him, nodding. "So if I were to go get my cowboy hat right now, you'd just tut at me and be all squirming-out-of-my-arms and saying-you-were-busy and such – but if you were _drunk_, you'd be riding me hard and whirling a lasso you made out of my favourite tie over your head—"

"I was _very_ drunk that night," Arthur interrupted defensively. "I barely even remember it."

"Well, it happened," Alfred said smugly. "And you thought I was sexy as hell then."

"W-well," Arthur began lamely, "it's not... that is to say, I was..."

"Yeah, you were drunk," Alfred said. "I know. Don't matter. I win. I'm totally sexy and the best boyfriend ever in the entire history of world so _there_!"

"Being "totally sexy" and being "the best boyfriend ever in the entire history of the world" do not lend themselves to each other," Arthur said, just to be difficult. "On what grounds do you make the latter claim, Alfred, darling?"

"Wha...?" Alfred seemed stunned. "You need an _explanation_?"

"Of course," Arthur said lightly, passing him, "else I shall think that you are all talk."

He was teasing, of course, just to ruffle Alfred's feathers; but Alfred appeared genuinely ticked, pouting.

"I put up with all your lame old-man habits," he said, beginning to count the list off on his fingers, "and I don't get mad when you're grumpy at me for no reason whatsoever, I eat your cooking – which is more than anyone _else_ will do – and I play Chess with you even though I have no idea what any of the rules are and I know you're going to beat me and then lord it up over me for the rest of the evening, let's see... Oh, oh, I don't pester you _too_ much when I'm feeling frisky and you push me away and say you're tired, I don't call you crazy when you start talking about your fairies and gnomes and whatever, I give you presents and I always take you on great dates and—"

"Alright, stop." Arthur was suddenly glad that he had turned away from him. He hadn't expected – hadn't _wanted_ – an answer like that. He'd just wanted Alfred to squawk indignantly that he was obviously the best boyfriend ever in the history of the world because he was a hero and the like – he hadn't wanted a list of carefully-counted obligations, of conceited reasons why Arthur _should_ think of him as a wonderful lover and be grateful that Alfred gave him the time of day. "I was joking, Alfred – I didn't think you were going to be shallow about the whole thing."

"Shallow?" Alfred sprang in front of him again. "What's shallow, exactly, about taking you to the gala premiere of Walt Disney's _Cinderella_? Oh, and _Peter Pan_, too – remember we went to see _Peter Pan_ on the opening night, rubbing shoulders with all the top Disney Studio stiffs? Of course, the Disney movie is way better than that fancy old book I got you, it needed that showbiz touch, but I took you to those premieres because I know you like those fairytale things and I figured it would make you happy!"

"You're missing the point," Arthur said irritably.

But Alfred shook his head.

"Nuh-uh, _you're_ missing the point," he said. "I know what you're thinking – you're thinking I'm shallow because I value everything I've done or do for you as something you should love me for. Well, maybe that's true but I _hope_ you love me for those things because I do them to please you." He shrugged. "So I guess it's a little arrogant of me to proclaim myself the best boyfriend ever but you never let finish my list. I was going to say that I'm the best simply because I love you."

Arthur scowled.

"So you're the best because you love _me_? You're implying that no-one else is capable of doing so?"

"No!" Alfred said frustratedly. "Oh my God, Arthur, you're so slow to catch on to stuff sometimes! I'm _your_ boyfriend and I love _you_ so... well, I guess I was kind of hoping that _you_ would think of me as the best on that basis."

Taken by surprise, Arthur didn't have an answer to that. He felt guilty for snapping at Alfred but he also felt rather idiotic for jumping down his throat on such a flimsy premise – one which had turned out to have no basis whatsoever – and his mumbled apology stuck in his throat. Instead he looked away, fidgeting with the hem of the open grey cardigan thrown over his shirt.

Alfred gave a sigh, looking at him helplessly.

"Artie," he began quietly, as though carefully choosing the colours of his tone, "are... are you—?"

"I'm _alright_, Alfred!" Arthur bit out, interrupting him because he couldn't bear to hear him ask that question again. "Please stop asking me that. I assure you that I am perfectly—"

"I was going to ask if you were happy, actually," Alfred said in a low voice.

Arthur felt his stomach sink as he forced himself to look at Alfred again.

"What... what do you mean by that?" he asked cautiously.

"With me," Alfred continued sullenly, sounding rather deflated. "Look, I know you're way older than me and you've been through a lot and, hell, you're tired; I know your economy isn't great, I know you're sick of being cooped up like this when you're not used to it, I know you get lonely sometimes even if you won't admit it. I can take the grouchiness, I can take you telling me to "bugger off" from time to time – but, God, Arthur..." Alfred trailed off with another despairing sigh. "...You just seem so miserable lately and I know you're trying to hide it but that just makes me think that _I'm_ the one causing you to be unhappy." He reached for Arthur's hands, prying one from his cardigan hem, and took them in his. "If it _is_ me, _please_ tell me and I'll do whatever I can to make it right, I swear. I know I tease you and make you mad sometimes but I would never deliberately upset you."

"Alfred..." Again, Arthur didn't know how to answer him. "It... it isn't you. It's nothing you've done or... well, it's just... everything." He gave Alfred a rather watery smile. "Everything you mentioned piling up and... I don't know. It's just hard to get used to everything being like this. It's all changed so much since the war."

The relief was visible on Alfred's face but he still frowned.

"You promise?"

"Yes." It wasn't exactly a lie – it wasn't that Arthur wasn't happy with Alfred. He was, very much so – he was also just very aware that Alfred became more and more out of his league with every day that passed and sometimes it made him shrink away from him, unsure of himself and his own worth for the first time in centuries. "Of course I'm happy with you, Alfred."

"Good." Alfred gripped at Arthur's hands. "Because I love you, Arthur. You have no idea."

_Yes, maybe I haven't_, Arthur thought, looking intently at Alfred's hands locked firmly around his own.

"I love you too, Alfred," he said quietly.

He saw something that looked like the tiniest, briefest flicker of disappointment cross Alfred's features before the American beamed brightly at him; he thought it peculiar but didn't chase the thought any further as Alfred pulled him in close for a proper hug.

"That's my Artie," Alfred laughed. "Getting the teeniest-tiniest scrap of affection out of him is like pulling teeth."

"My name is _Arthur_," Arthur sighed – it was the first he'd said it in a while, almost giving up on correcting Alfred's persistent, deliberate mistake.

"Tch," Alfred said in his ear, "you want I should call you Ass-Groper instead?"

"I wasn't touching it," Arthur said flatly, moving his hands to Alfred's bare back.

"You so were! You had your hand in my back pocket and everything! What were you looking for, my wallet? I thought you were past robbing people!"

"Old habits die hard." Arthur ran his hands lightly down Alfred's sides, over his ribs, finding all of his ticklish spots without even looking – knowing them by heart. Alfred gave a thoroughly-unmanly squeal and disentangled himself, gasping with laughter as he batted Arthur away.

"No fair, get away!" Alfred stumbled backwards a few paces, his arms wrapped protectively around his naked torso, still laughing. "Boy, you're rotten, Arthur! No tickling allowed!"

"Oh, you make the rules up as you go along – as usual," Arthur sighed.

"Yeah, because I'm a great hero and everyone has to follow what I say!"

Alfred dived at him with the enthusiasm of a three-year-old child on a pile of presents on Christmas Day, trying to tickle him back; Arthur actually wasn't anywhere near as ticklish as Alfred himself was and didn't dissolve into a helpless giggling heap the moment he was so much as touched but Alfred was heavy and strong and Arthur was reminded that he really wasn't in the mood for roughhousing when Alfred strayed too near his bruise. He retreated, one hand clamped over his ribs, feeling terribly pathetic for doing it but not wanting to add to the already-ugly design.

"I'm not playing with you, Alfred," he said firmly. "I still have a lot of work to do for tomorrow and I need to get the bedroom tidied up before I can start."

Alfred was looking at his hand.

"Did I hurt you again?" he asked quietly, suddenly sobered.

"No." Arthur took his hand away from the bruise to prove his point. "No, you didn't. I just don't have time to play with you at the moment – and you _did_ say you would go and hide in the wardrobe in Narnia today and stay out of my way."

Alfred gave a tight-lipped nod and glanced about.

"Alright, let me put a shirt on and I'll go downstairs," he said somewhat-expressionlessly. "I guess I'll start on _The Hound of the Baskervilles_."

"That's a good idea," Arthur said approvingly, taking up a blue button-down from the chair and handing it to Alfred. "Go and culture yourself for a few hours and I'll quiz you at lunch."

"Ugh, I'd laugh if only I thought you were actually joking," Alfred muttered, shrugging the shirt on and beginning to button it.

Arthur watched him doing it, noting that he seemed to be terribly invested in it – as though avoiding making eye contact with Arthur himself. Wonderful. Now _Alfred_ was all moody and quiet, worrying that he'd hurt Arthur again. Their pattern of communication was disconcertingly – frustratingly – somewhat like a seesaw, constantly tipped one way or the other and rarely balanced perfectly in the middle.

Arthur saw only way to fix this particular bump, something that would work better than words of reassurance that Alfred wouldn't believe anyway; he waited until Alfred had fastened the last button, reached up and took hold of his chin, turned his head towards himself and kissed him.

It was embarrassing, of course, that he had to stretch (a little) to kiss someone he had once carried on his shoulders; usually Alfred was accommodating enough to bend to eliminate the (small) height difference (it really wasn't _that_ big a difference) but he was too surprised by the manoeuvre on Arthur's part at the moment to notice that the island-nation was practically on his toes in order to reach him. By the time he _had_ noticed and was starting to try to make it easier, Arthur had pulled away, licking his lips and tasting salt on them.

"Um," Alfred said, appearing dazed.

"Yes, well," Arthur said, composing himself with a false little cough, "ride along, then, cowboy."

A very wicked grin shot across Alfred's face.

"I'll go get my cowboy hat," he said.

"You will not," Arthur replied tautly. He gave Alfred a firm pat on the rear to get him moving. "Go on, out."

Alfred pretended to sulk on his way out of the bedroom.

"You say that," he sighed, "but you can't keep your hands off my butt." He caught himself in the mirror again and paused, acting as though greatly admiring his own backside. "Well, it _is_ mighty fine—"

"Get _out_, you big-headed twit," Arthur groaned, picking up a lone sock and beginning to hunt for its partner.

"I'm _going_ – I told you, I'm going to fetch my cowboy hat."

Arthur threw the sock at him.

**[Accusation]**

Arthur really had no idea how all of these things had managed to get under the bed. Silly things they were, too – a pen, a battered three of hearts playing-card, a crumpled dried-up leaf, a cricket ball Arthur had had no idea he even owned, several long-forgotten dusty coins, the match to the sock he had thrown at Alfred and, speaking of Alfred, several of his belongings, including his glasses case (that he never used), the blue-with-silver-stars underwear he had been complaining that he'd lost about a week ago and a pair of his jeans.

The jeans appeared to have been the under the bed for the least amount of time – there was only a little bit of dust on them, which Arthur batted off as he straightened up, holding them by the belt-loops. Alfred practically lived in these things these days – they were a new fashion statement across the Atlantic, not that Arthur cared much for them. Well... they looked good on Alfred, he had to admit, but he didn't see himself wearing them (or any of his people).

Still, being under the bed for several days hadn't done this particular pair of jeans any favours. They were a little grubby even though he'd dusted them off and he decided to throw them into the wash-basket rather than suffer Alfred wearing them in public, not noticing they were dirty because his glasses were often the last thing he put on in the morning. The weather was fine for October and he reasoned that he could probably dry them easily before Alfred left on Monday morning.

Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed and turned out the pockets of the jeans in case Alfred had anything in them that he wouldn't want being washed. He found a quarter, a few British pennies and an empty bubblegum wrapper in one and a folded piece of paper in the other. It was probably junk, knowing Alfred, but Arthur unfolded it to check it wasn't important before he threw it away.

It was a hand-written receipt from a bookshop. It took Arthur a moment to realise that it was the receipt for the expensive copy of _Peter Pan and Wendy_ Alfred had bought for him in one of his extravagantly-generous moods. Arthur was honestly still rather annoyed at him for that, if only because it proved that the Great Depression hadn't taught him a bleeding thing, but he had decided to let it drop that night because he'd seen how desperately Alfred wanted him to have it. It had hurt his pride a little to give in like that but he'd known that to force Alfred to take the gift back would only hurt _him_ even more and Alfred had, after all, bought it for him out of kindness and not to rub his wealth in his face.

Still. £50. Fifty pounds. It was a horrific amount – the book was worth that money, certainly, but sometimes he wished Alfred wasn't so sickeningly nice. The figure, written on the receipt in blue ink, glared up at him and he turned it over so that he wouldn't have to look at it – wouldn't have to be reminded that _he_ didn't have money like that to throw about anymore—

There was more writing on the back. Arthur blinked at it. It was Alfred's writing. He would recognise it anywhere – he himself had taught Alfred to write and the style hadn't changed much from those first shaky letters, simply becoming bolder, thicker, more confident. He frowned at it, realising that it was a list.

A very odd, disconcerting list.

_Super-Awesome Master Plan to get Artie to call me 'Alfie' _

_Make awesome breakfast_

_Make awesome dinner _

_Go to boring-ass museum_

_Go to boring-ass bookstore_

_Buy Artie a present _

_Go for dinner at a swanky restaurant_

_Go home and go to bed (and let Artie pick the position)_

_Try to not kick Artie out of bed at 3:30am_

Arthur dimly felt the jeans slide off his lap as he let go of them, making no effort to catch them; all he could do was stare at the list, written so starkly in Alfred's handwriting, and feel his heart sink horribly. He had _thought_ that Alfred was acting strangely – he was generally sweet-natured and affectionate anyway, but he'd really given the appearance lately of being even more outwardly-loving than was usual for him, making breakfast and suggesting the Victoria and Albert Museum instead of insisting they go to the park and play with a baseball mitt and a ball and buying him that book and...

Well. It was all here. On this list.

Arthur felt like an idiot. He ought to have known that Alfred was after something – even if it _was_ something this bizarre – but admittedly he often liked to forget that Alfred could be manipulative when he wanted his own way, preferring to push it to the back of his mind alongside the other things about Alfred that didn't sit well with him, things like his temper and how destructive he could be. They were all blinkers he put on himself because he loved Alfred and didn't like to see the bad in him (or, rather, _wouldn't_ see it – "Love is blind," Francis was fond of muttering); and he supposed that the same applied to every couple, certain that Alfred probably did the same for _his_ faults, but all the same...

He should have realised and he felt utterly stupid for having fallen for each of the things on this awful little list. It didn't seem that there was any true malice in what Alfred was attempting to do, playing each of Arthur's sweet-spots to get what he wanted from him – and what he wanted merely being a silly little nickname – but Arthur still didn't like that Alfred was trying to control him by almost... _programming_ his behaviour.

It was something the Alfred of ten years ago probably wouldn't have done.

He didn't know quite how he felt – if he was angry or frightened or simply hurt. They both knew that Alfred was by far the strongest between them now, rich and powerful and locked in a deadly difference of opinions with Ivan, and the fact that Alfred had spent the past four days trying to twist him to his will made Arthur feel very cornered and strangely alone. He was isolated as it was and he didn't have many friends, not going out of his way to make them and preferring to crush people under his heel when he had the power to because then they wouldn't dare to stand up to him or stab him in the back; he had once held the world in his hand but now all he had of the world, really, was Alfred – his ally, his lover, his closest friend. Alfred was the only person he had ever allowed into his heart, behind the wall of his indifference, and if he couldn't trust _him_...

Perhaps he was overreacting – he was certain Alfred hadn't meant this as an exercise in cruelty – but Arthur simply couldn't help the horror that shuddered through his body as he stared and stared at the list in absolute dismay. All he could take comfort in was that Alfred's "Super-Awesome Master Plan" hadn't actually succeeded as far as its actual aim went.

Well. He rose, clutching the list in his white hand. Moping up here was no good. He had raised Alfred, after all, and he wasn't about to put up with this. If nothing else, he owed it to Alfred to inform him that this kind of behaviour wasn't acceptable.

He found Alfred in the living room, sprawled on the rug reading _The Hound of the Baskervilles_; he stormed over to him and was standing right over him before Alfred languidly looked up from his book.

"Hi, Arthur – what's up?" Alfred asked, blinking up at him in bewilderment.

"Don't think I don't know you're playing mind games with me," Arthur said coldly, accusingly.

Alfred cocked his head.

"Mind games?" he repeated, appearing baffled.

"You heard what I said," Arthur said icily. "Don't act a fool, Alfred."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Alfred protested. "I really—"

"Oh?" Arthur seethed, and he tossed the list onto the open pages of Alfred's book. "Then what's _this_?"

**[Argument]**

Alfred definitely paled a shade as he looked at the list – Arthur clearly saw the colour drain out of his face.

"You can't deny it," Arthur said haughtily. "That's your handwriting – and it's your receipt."

"Yeah, for _your_ book," Alfred muttered.

"That you bought for me so you could manipulate me!"

"I'm not _manipulating_ you!" Alfred cried defensively, getting up and bringing the list; he crumpled it irritably. "I should have known this would bite me in the ass with you snooping around, Sherlock. Don't mess with my stuff – jeez, you're as bad as Ivan..."

It was a childishness that Arthur simply wouldn't stoop to but he really felt like stamping his foot right now in utter frustration – how typical of Alfred, trying to put on the 'Poor Little Me' act to make _Arthur_ look like the bad guy here.

"I wasn't "snooping" _or_ "messing with your stuff"," he snapped. "I was picking up your jeans that you left under the bed for three days! Perhaps if you were tidier, you'd be able to get away with sick little games like this!"

"Sick little...?" Alfred's expression darkened. "Christ, Arthur, get a grip – this isn't a mind game, I wasn't trying to subconsciously force you to do anything—"

"I _do_ have a grip, Alfred – on _reality_," Arthur interrupted coldly. "Oh, I expect you think I'm just overreacting but the fact is that if you design a sequence of events – an obstacle-course, if you will, of my particular likes – with the intent of getting me to do something to _your_ liking and which I might not do without such prompting, you _are_, without a doubt, attempting to manipulate me. I am certain that you meant no evil behind it but nonetheless I do not appreciate it at all."

Alfred gave an irritable sigh.

"You _are_ overreacting," he said. "Seriously, if I was trying to brainwash you or something, that'd be different, but this is just a silly little thing – I was trying to make you happy so you'd call me 'Alfie' because you're too stuck-up to do it otherwise!"

"How is it any different from brainwashing in the end?" Arthur asked bitterly. "If I'm too "stuck-up" to call you that ridiculous nickname as I am then trying to modify my mood so that I will is akin to brainwashing, whether you like it or not."

"Don't be so dumb, Arthur – it's not like I'm trying to convert you to Communism or something the way Ivan—"

"We're not discussing Ivan, we're discussing _you_!" Arthur seethed. "I'm fed up of you using him as a scapegoat! I hate him too but everything with you these days is just Ivan and Yao and Communism. The fact that you and he don't get along and want to bomb each other to Hell doesn't mean you can blame him for all of your problems or use him to make yourself appear to be the lesser of two evils."

"Are you _nuts_?" Alfred asked incredulously. "Of course I'm the lesser of two evils when it comes to Ivan!"

"I already said," Arthur bit out, "that we're not discussing Ivan – we are discussing you and the fact that you think it's alright to play me up to get what you want out of me." The half-confused look on Alfred's face only made Arthur's temper spike even more. "How _dare_ you treat me like this! I don't care how much stronger or richer you are than me these days, I'm not a puppet for you to play with however you like!"

"I never said that you _were_!" Alfred looked as though he was starting to get rather annoyed. "Jeez, why do you still have such a chip on your shoulder about everything? I know you used to be the world's biggest empire and you're not anymore, I know you resent that – but why do you have to assume that everything I do is just to shove the fact that _I_ took your place down your throat? Why do you think that I'm trying to push you around because I'm stronger than you now?"

"Because," Arthur said icily, speaking as the words came to his tongue as though finally realising, "Yao is right – you're a spoilt brat and all you want is your own way and to Hell with everyone else, to Hell with the consequences and the effects it has on others. Hasn't it occurred to you that I don't call you 'Alfie' because I don't _want_ to? Your name is 'Alfred" and so that's what I'll call you and it's too bloody bad if you don't like it."

Arthur caught his breath and folded his arms, glaring at Alfred, determined to stand his ground even though Alfred was so much bigger than him. Apologise. Alfred needed to apologise first – right this instant – and then they could go from there.

Alfred didn't say anything for a long moment. He pushed up his glasses, the light from the living room window flashing on the lenses and slithering silver over the crack, making it glint brightly for a moment. The sight of it made Arthur suppress a shiver – it was difficult to forget, after all, that Alfred had gotten that crack in his glasses to begin with because he'd lost his temper with Ivan and it had come to blows between the pair of them, these two monstrously-strong superpowers armed with nightmarish weapons and clashing ideologies...

Arthur had weapons like that under his belt too, mostly as a badge to prove to Alfred that he was at his side, but he wasn't like them – he wasn't in their league at all. The British Empire had been built on strategy, on riches gained by trading and exploitation; oh, Arthur had subjugated, he had been terribly cruel in his time, but he had never destroyed as Alfred had. He knew hegemony but he did not know the kind of supremacy Alfred had as world power.

He did not understand what Alfred had become.

Alfred did not blow up as he had expected him to. He had known Alfred since he was very small and was well aware that, when he was _really_ pushed, he had quite a temper; but Alfred, conversely, didn't throw one of his quasi-tantrums, instead finally cramming the list into his jeans pocket and blowing sideways out of his mouth to ruffle a few strands of gold hair curling towards his cheek.

"Okay," he said at length, his voice wooden. "That's cool, I guess. You can do whatever you want, Arthur – I won't _manipulate_ you, alright?"

He stuck his hands into his pockets and walked past Arthur; Arthur didn't move a muscle as he moved by him, standing rigidly with his arms still folded across his chest, not even looking at Alfred as the American headed for the living room door.

"Still," Alfred said icily as he opened the door, "if I'm a spoilt brat, _you're_ the only one I have to thank for it."

He stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Still Arthur didn't move, absolutely livid; moments later he heard the front door bang shut as well and he knew that Alfred had gone storming out of the house (more or less proving Arthur's point, or so he felt).

He was glad. He absolutely furious with Alfred, the argument having resolved nothing, and felt that having him out of the house completely might help to cool himself down. He didn't care where Alfred had gone but he hoped he stayed there for a while.

_And when he comes back_, Arthur thought bitterly as he made his way back upstairs to go and do some work, _he had better be ready to apologise.

* * *

_

A IS ALSO FOR ANGST – angst angst aaaaaaaangst~!

Yes, yes, I know this is labelled as 'Humour' and I've had a review or two from readers noting that this fic does have a slightly more serious nature than they were expecting from the summary – but the fact is that this (a huge bust-up) was bound to happen sooner or later. I love USUK (it's mah _APH_ OTP) but Alfie and Artie _do_ have personalities that clash horribly at times and it would almost be OOC to not have them argue at least once in a multichapter fic.

Besides, I feel that they both have valid points; Arthur *is* overreacting given that Alfred didn't mean any harm but, on the other hand, if _I_ found a list like that with regards to me, I think I'd be pissed off too. It _is_ kind of creepy if you're on the receiving end...

Some more dates:

_Cinderella_ and _Peter Pan_ were Disney's two early 1950s releases (they ended the decade with _Sleeping Beauty_ in 1959), _Cinderella_ in **1950** and _Peter Pan_ in **1953**.

Marilyn Monroe was just hitting the height of her fame in 1954 after appearing in leading roles in movies such as _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_ and _Some Like It Hot_, both released in **1953**.

Okay, so this week I'm not off Englanding so I should be able to get the next chapter up on Friday where it's supposed to be! Hurrah! GET EXCITED!

Let's just hope Alfred doesn't come back with a puppy or something. XD

RR xXx


	7. Have

A is for 'almost there'! XD

This is Chapter 7 of 8 – and we're on time this week, too! Whoo! Now that we're properly back on schedule, I think next Friday will probably host the final chapter. I can't believe we're here already... o.O

Thanks to: **Miss Misa Minnow **(now **ForeverTheHero**)**, Axxi, The Wonder Bunny, shake-it-buddy, Tamer-Lorika, suzako, kumori-blue, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, Mochibun, Picadillo, Aiyaa, Author and Co, LithiumKiss, Wizzabeff, cax, YourFloatingAngel, thepersonnexttoyou, egoXlockheart, allezhopunptitverredesake, TigerlilyandHummingbird, nocco, Chibi Chibi Sami, Plate Captain, Prestidigtations **and the very kind anonymous, nameless reviewer who left me a very long review and worked out that £50 back in 1954 was worth somewhere between £1000-£2000 now. i no, rite? o.O

So our not-so-starcrossed lovers had their first real fight of the fic at the end of the last chapter and, to top it all off, Alfred's genius plan still hasn't worked – and the chances of it doing so are probably very slim now that Arthur knows about it. But don't give up, hero! Arthur can only be tsun-tsun for so long before he melts into a pile of dere-dere goo in your big strong muscle-bound arms... or something.

This chapter: Some females! Yes, this is momentous!

...But don't get too excited for Hungary, Lichtenstein, Belgium or Seychelles. Just btdubs.

A is For…

**[Absence]**

Having been unable to concentrate properly all morning, Arthur retreated to the back porch with his tea after a quick, lonely lunch; he sat on the loveseat by himself and rocked himself back and forwards a little, watching the gentle sway of the tea against the walls of his teacup.

It was very quiet without Alfred. It was a silence Arthur was used to between the visits back-and-forth across the Atlantic but it seemed strange to him now with an ear so used to the idea of having someone else in the house with him all the time; even when Alfred wasn't chattering animatedly about his loopy idea to send a rocket to the Moon or complaining about how boring Arthur's wallpaper was, the place rarely fell as utterly still as this. Alfred still had the insatiable curiosity he had possessed as a child and he was always touching things and opening things and taking things apart, never doing anything quietly and making Arthur quickly get used to the symphony of his presence.

He had been gone for a few hours. Arthur was still angry with him but had honestly thought he might come drifting back for lunch, at least – there was no sign of him, however, making Arthur wonder where the hell Alfred had gone. Alfred didn't know his way around London very well at all, always taking wrong turns if Arthur wasn't quite literally dragging him along. Perhaps he _had_ tried to come back for lunch and was lost in Piccadilly Circus somewhere...

Arthur shrugged and sighed. What could he do? It wasn't _his_ fault if Alfred wanted to throw a strop and go stalking out of the house by himself, after all. Honestly, Alfred was perfectly ridiculous at times – it was clear that he, Arthur, was in the right here and Alfred was just too stubborn to admit it, preferring to sulk. Well, Arthur wasn't quite that childish; he wouldn't strop, he wouldn't sulk, and when Alfred finally decided to say he was sorry, he would at least hear him out.

He leaned back in the loveseat to finish his tea. The weather was fair again, crisp and clear with a cloudless blue sky overhead and mild enough for him to be agreeably warm in just a cardigan. The pleasantness had brought out a few fairies – there were two, both female, flitting around the teapot, admiring their reflections in its surface, and a further three, two males (one a child) and another older female (his mother), down by the withered remains of what had been a splendid rosebush during the summer.

One thing about the fairies – they weren't overly fond of Alfred, who tended to wave his arms around a lot animatedly when he talked, and they were inclined to stay away completely when he was with Arthur (which Arthur thought was fair enough – Alfred couldn't see them and had accidentally hit a few of them when they came too close). They were curious, however; Arthur had seen one or two of the bolder ones fluttering around Alfred when he was asleep (and wasn't flailing around like an octopus) and examining his things, fascinated by the shine of his glasses on the nightstand and the fact that his clothes were so different to Arthur's.

Still, Alfred's complete absence brought them out in force, making them feel safe enough to be in Arthur's vicinity without the danger of being sent flying by an oblivious American who didn't believe they even existed – and to keep Arthur company, too, when he was on his own again. They were kind little creatures like that, never wanting anything in return for their friendship.

So tiny and delicate, too – the most skilled doll-maker in the world could never craft such fragile beauty as the lovely specimen closest to Arthur now, the copper gloss of her auburn hair and the opal shimmer of her thread-thin wings and her handmade dress of an autumn leaf to match the fashion of the season, dappled with reds and browns and bright oranges like a flame. Her feet were bare, the left adorned only by a single anklet made from a silver spider's web which glinted with her every motion.

Arthur put out his hand towards her and she didn't hesitate to land on his palm, perfectly trusting of him, enough to sit down and adjust the dew-drop-gems studded throughout her hair. The other fairy, a brunette in a dress made from a leaf with a fair amount of green still on it, saw the attention being given to her friend and soared immediately to Arthur's shoulder, perching herself on it and making him smile at her bid for his interest.

"It _is_ good of you, girls," he said gently, "to keep a lonely old man company."

The copper-coloured fairy smiled at him, rising again; she scampered across his hand and took flight again as she reached his wrist, fluttering away out of his sight. She came back a moment later with a little twig, probably the largest one she could carry, and put it on his hand – a gift for him.

He had a glass bowl on a shelf in the kitchen full of the little gifts the fairies had given him over the years – seeds and flowers, long dried out by now, and empty snail shells with pretty patterns on them and pieces of grass knotted into intricate shapes and flimsy shreds of the wings of dead butterflies, the colour in them still brilliant and beautiful. He treasured every little thing they gave him and would put the twig into the bowl with everything else.

The brunette fairy, not about to be outdone, soared away herself and returned with a thorn broken off the rosebush corpse, dropping it into his outstretched palm as she landed on his fingertips and waited for his approval.

"Thankyou," he said; his smile was never forced with the fairies, coming naturally at their every small attempt to make him happy. He never got angry or frustrated or bitter with them, for he found them to be far less disagreeable than people.

He moved to put the little presents in his cardigan pocket; the brunette fairy flitted off his hand and went back to his shoulder, settling comfortably in the dip of it. The copper-haired fairy scurried lightly up his arm, half-flying so that he barely felt her, and came to kiss him on the cheek; he watched the other three, now curiously investigating the teapot and little milk pitcher, as she did so.

He had always thought it rather peculiar that he drew them towards himself despite the fact that he had always done so – fairies and other fantastical beings that spilled out of myths to ease his loneliness, gnomes and goblins and unicorns like the one opposite his lion on Great Britain's royal crest. He had had no friends as a child, even more isolated than he was now and uninvolved in the border-wars of the continent, with only Francis turning up now and then to remind him who was in charge now that Rome had buggered off. Perhaps these creatures could not have suffered to see a child with no-one to play with or talk to and that was why they had come to him to be his companions all those centuries ago – but time and age seemed not to have affected his ability to attract them. Even at the very height of his power as an Empire, when he had become ruthless and pitiless and shameless in his greed, these gentle beings of such delicate exquisiteness had shone brighter still in his hands than any Mughal ruby or gold goblet; when everyone around him was afraid of crossing him, the unicorns still nudged at him for food and the fairies still gave him gifts of empty nutshells.

Once, looking at a beautiful illustration of a fairy in one of Arthur's books – of Queen Mab from Mercutio's fantastical speech in _Romeo and Juliet_, in fact – Alfred had pretended to look Arthur up and down before jokingly asking what they saw in him.

("I mean, really, what's someone like _her_ doing hanging around _you_, Artie?" Alfred teased, his chin propped on one hand.

"They are not human, Alfred," Arthur replied absently – in one of his literature-induced dreamy moods where he didn't tell Alfred to shut up every two minutes. "They are not indifferent to the absences in the hearts of others as we are.")

Still, how peculiar of Alfred to comment when it was clear that he didn't believe in what he couldn't see – ironic, given that he was short-sighted – and also when Arthur had been at his loneliest when Alfred had left him back in 1775. Before Alfred, Arthur had never minded having only fairyfolk as his friends; in Alfred's absence, though he was glad of their company, Arthur had found himself lonelier than ever, having now known the constant companionship of another. There was no conversation to be had with fairies, no activity to be done with them and no game to be played with them; they could not be walked with or dined with or even simply read with. When he read in their presence, they landed on the page and cast their shadows over it, admiring the pictures like ornate carpets laid out beneath their tiny feet; when he had read to Alfred, the child had given him every scrap of his attention, listening rapturously with wide eyes as he clung to Arthur's every word. Despite his anger and his hurt, he had missed Alfred terribly after the Revolutionary War had driven them apart and Alfred's absence had never been more apparent than when his only reading companions were tiny creatures who had the capacity to love but not to listen.

It was so quiet now because there was no conversation to be had with them.

Still, he had learned a thing or two about aloneness from them and their gentle, ever-offered friendship; they were inhuman and so not indifferent to the absences in the hearts of others, of pain and regret and sorrow. He had learned loneliness from them and they always, always reminded him that, no matter the reason for which they had parted, he never failed to miss Alfred when he was gone.

**[Anxious]**

Dusk was drawing in close and fast when Arthur finally picked up the phone, resting its weight between his cheek and shoulder as he tried to reign in his growing anxiety and with his forefinger dragged the heavy brass dial around over and over again, an inch here, a whole half-circle there. The thing with Alfred was that _he_ wasn't exactly Mr Popular himself either, far too fond of meddling in other people's business since the end of the war and the beginning of his never-to-return-isolationism-again stance; all of Asia and half of Europe couldn't stand him, even for all his overbearing friendliness, which narrowed down the list of places he might go if cruelly cast out of Arthur's house into the street with only the bomber jacket on his back to shield him from the bitter cold, the poor tragic thing.

"Allo?"

"Good evening, Francis," Arthur said curtly. "Is Matthew there?"

"Oui, he is," Francis drawled on the other end of the crackling line, "but I am afraid he cannot come out to play. It is almost his bedtime, you see."

"Spare me, letch," Arthur bit out. "Put him on. I need to talk to him."

"So rude," Francis muttered; Arthur heard him take the phone away from his ear and call to Matthew in French.

This didn't bode well, Arthur felt. The fact that Francis hadn't immediately crowed down the phone that Alfred appeared to have finally had some sense knocked into him and had come looking for a better lay than Arthur elsewhere meant that Alfred had not stopped by Francis' house at all – and, therefore, that he wasn't there now.

"He comes now," Francis said, addressing Arthur again. "Try not to keep him too long, Arthur, mon ami – I must take him to bed soon or he will be dreadfully cranky in the morning."

"I said spare me," Arthur snapped in disgust – he was still digesting this whole Francis-and-Matthew thing and really didn't care all that much for the mental image.

Francis, however, was already gone, replaced by Matthew's quiet, polite tone a moment later:

"Good evening, Arthur," Matthew said gently. "Is everything alright?"

"Y-well... I..." Arthur paused, winding the cord around his fingers distractedly as he tried to think about how best to word this without sounding terribly anxious – he didn't want to panic Matthew about his brother, after all. "It's... it's Alfred."

"Oh." Matthew's tone conveyed the tiniest sense "Alfred _again_ – story of my life" but he sounded concerned nonetheless. "Is he okay?"

"The thing is... I, ah, I don't know," Arthur said quickly. "I haven't seen him all day. I don't suppose he's made any contact with you – a phonecall, perhaps?"

"Why, no, he hasn't."

"Ah." Arthur's heart sank. "I see."

"Where is he?" Matthew asked, sounding rather anxious himself. "I-I mean... that was a silly question, I know; I meant, where did he go? Did you send him somewhere and he hasn't come back?"

"Not exactly," Arthur mumbled. "We sort of... had an argument—"

"And he stormed out," Matthew interrupted, sighing. "That sounds like Al."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak but paused when he heard a little murmuring of French somewhere in the background. He irritably clenched his fist around the phone cord – he might have known Francis was still lurking around Matthew, listening to the conversation. He was about to simply talk over Francis and take Matthew's attention back but Matthew replied in French, his voice low and quick and worried. Francis gave a deep sigh and addressed Matthew in a dismissive manner; Arthur heard the rattle of the receiver changing hands again a moment later and was on the line with Francis once more before he could protest.

"Arthur, this is agonizing to witness," Francis said wearily. "On one hand I attribute your failure to see what is going on here to your being relatively-new to this relationship business; but, on quite the other, I truly must wonder how _you_, of all people, can possibly be so blind when it comes to darling Alfred."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Arthur asked, his hackles rising already at the sheer sound of Francis' voice.

"_Mon dieu_, stupidity has never been attractive on you," Francis groaned. "Let us assume that Yao has a point about Alfred and the way that you treat him – and you will remember of course, that I agreed with Yao's take on the matter even yesterday. The fact is, Arthur, that it is only natural that Alfred will take benefit in the way you behave towards him. He has learned that, if he sulks, he is likely to get what he wants from you – in other words, he has learned to manipulate you and he has learned well. What better way to get you to apologise and fuss over him than if he stays gone all day so that you will worry and quite forget your anger by the time he returns?"

This was hardly news to Arthur, who had noticed controlling tendencies in Alfred before and had most _certainly_ noticed them this morning, Arthur not taking kindly to Alfred's excuse of "It's okay if it's out of love, baby" being the whole reason Alfred had gone stalking off by himself down the street; however, he _hated_ to hear it from Francis almost as much he hated to hear it from Yao (or anyone, really, who picked at Alfred's faults despite the fact that he, Arthur, knew perfectly well that they were there).

"I say, Francis," Arthur said coldly, "I don't recall asking for your opinion on the matter so why don't you jolly well mind your own business!"

"It will be very _much_ my business if you don't keep that beloved brat of yours in hand, Arthur!" Francis snapped. "We are all – how do you say it? – treading on the eggshells at the moment regarding our precarious peace agreements following the war."

"Th... that has nothing to do with Alfred sulking with me!" Arthur said incredulously.

"It is not his actions which alarm me," France conceded. "At least not at the moment. _Non_, it is rather his behaviour—"

"He can't help it if he doesn't know how to deal with people very well," Arthur cut in without even thinking. "He was isolated for all those years and he got to know the world by fighting those wars—"

"And," Francis drawled boredly, "right on cue, Arthur defends his precious little bundle of innocence. You must understand, mon ami, that I am not accusing Alfred of being evil or of harbouring evil intent; what I am attempting to make you understand that he is not the child that he once was."

Arthur was really quite insulted.

"Of course I know that!" he bit out. "The changes in him are—"

"Do you?" Francis sounded like he was yawning at the other end of the line. "Then why do you treat him as you have always done?"

"I—"

"I shall tell you," Francis said in a low voice. "Because you love him as you have always done – and he knows it. I am familiar with Alfred; I would not call him unkind, nor would I call him cruel or vindictive, and the goodness in him is one that I know _you_ know well. But there are qualities in him that you would rather not see and so you ignore them until it is too late. In the meantime, he takes advantage of the fact that you will probably give him no more reprimand than a stern word or two. His manipulative behaviour – and the fact that he thinks he can get away with anything he likes – is the result of _you_ babying him."

"What would you have me do, turn him over on my knee and spank him the next time he threatens to plunge us all into Nuclear Armageddon?" Arthur seethed. "Besides, you heard him yesterday, Francis. He apologised for the repercussions of nuclear armament and the problems it's caused everyone!"

The fact that Francis didn't immediately latch onto Arthur suggesting that he spank Alfred and turn it into a lewd insinuation was probably a cause for concern; Francis merely sighed again on the other end of the line, probably massaging his brow in that stupid melodramatic _Les Misérables_ way of his.

"Very well," he said stiffly. "I see that there is no getting through to you. My advice to you, Arthur, is not to worry too much about Alfred and his whereabouts – I am certain he will come back to you when he feels that he has been gone long enough to satisfactorily make you sick with anxiety. Au revoir."

Arthur had wanted to talk to Matthew again and didn't appreciate being hung up on, particularly not by Francis; still, phonecalls were expensive and it wasn't worth ringing back to yell at Francis to never hang up on him ever again. He dropped the phone back into the receiver with a heavy sigh, hating to admit to himself that Francis probably had a point, no matter how rude and nosy and downright annoying he was. Alfred was perfectly capable of looking after himself and probably _was_ just staying away from the house to make Arthur feel guilty about shouting at him.

Furthermore, regardless of how annoyed he was at Francis for instigating – something the Frenchman was awfully good at – Arthur couldn't help but feel rather idiotic for defending Alfred to the death whenever Francis suggested that he was anything less than a saint when _he_, Arthur, was actually very annoyed with Alfred for exactly the same manipulative behaviour that Francis was accusing him of.

That, after all, had been the cause of their argument to begin with.

Still... He couldn't help it. He couldn't help anxiously glancing at the window every time a shadow flickered past or listening for the lock on the front door going. He couldn't help still loving Alfred as wholly and as protectively as if he was his child—

Even if Alfred took advantage of it.

**[Anger]**

Arthur was rewriting his list of proposals for funding to be taken into effect in January, 1955, in his best handwriting – the action of smoothly forming every letter to the very best of his capability taking up all of his attention and thus keeping him calm – when he heard the front door open at long last.

A sense of relief washed over him before he could quash it as he glanced at the clock on his study wall – it was almost ten at night. Alfred had been gone for something like twelve hours and Arthur was enormously glad that he'd at last made a reappearance.

Still... He composed himself, sobering again, perfectly of the mind that Alfred had stayed out of the house so long to get a reaction from him. Francis was infuriatingly right – Alfred had sulking down to an exact science and had doubtless deliberately tried to worry Arthur with his prolonged absence as pay-back. Alfred wasn't truly spiteful but he _was_ childish at times and it was the sort of thing a child would do.

So Arthur wasn't going to run to him and fling his arms around his neck and ask where he had been; he wasn't going to say he had been worried sick that something had happened to him, he wasn't going to make him promise not to do it again and he _certainly_ wasn't going to say he was sorry for shouting at him.

He went back to writing, far more slowly this time but determined to appear nonchalant and unruffled when Alfred came so triumphantly upon him, ready to bask in the gush of Arthur's apologetic concern; he listened to the steady _thud_ of Alfred climbing the stairs, noting that his pace was slower than normal but knowing it was him by how heavy the footfalls were.

Alfred came along the landing, pausing every now and then to – presumably – lean into every room, hunting for Arthur; he had apparently run out of patience by the time he got to the study, for he barely knocked before opening the door and leaning in.

Arthur diligently kept writing.

"There you are," Alfred said.

"Here I am," Arthur agreed blandly, not looking up.

"Um... well, I'm back," Alfred went on, sounding a bit thrown off.

"I can see that," Arthur replied.

"How can you _see_ it? You haven't even looked at me."

Arthur looked up very slowly, taking his time about it. Alfred was standing in the doorway, one hand on the door handle and the other in the pocket of his bomber jacket. Arthur wasn't quite sure why but his attention was immediately drawn to Alfred's glasses. The crack was gone. He must have gotten them fixed sometime today.

"I can now see that you are indeed back," Arthur said flatly, "as opposed to before, when I wasn't quite sure and thought I was just hearing things."

Alfred looked as though he was on the verge of saying something like "Well, it wouldn't be the first time"; but he appeared to restrain himself, leaning against the doorframe.

"Still grumpy, I see," he said. "Look, I'm sorry if I worried you."

"Worried?" Arthur went back to his work. "I barely noticed you were gone."

"Arthur, you are _so_ bad at lying."

"Well then," Arthur said frostily, "in that case I apologise that I am not as accomplished at underhandedness as you are."

"This _again_?" Alfred sighed as he pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room. "Arthur, I'm sorry about the whole Alfie-thing, okay? I'm sorry about every stupid teeny-tiny thing I've done to upset you so take a chill pill already, will you?"

"You're _not_ sorry," Arthur said coldly. "You're not sorry about it because you think I'm overreacting and there's nothing for you to be sorry _about_ – you're only apologising because you think it's what I want to hear and it will stop me being angry with you."

Alfred snorted irritably.

"Well, it _is_, isn't it?" he asked coolly.

"I only want to hear it if you _mean_ it, Alfred." Arthur restrained himself from rolling his eyes as he said it – honestly, it was like explaining things to a toddler...

"Of course I mean it!" Alfred burst out. "Okay, yeah, I admit, I think you're busting a gut a bit much over this – I mean, I really _didn't_ intend to... to brainwash you or manipulate you or whatever, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or that I was trying to make you do what I want regardless of how _you_ feel." He sighed again, sounding exasperated. "God, Arthur, how long have you known me? I don't think anyone is as close to me as you are. You _know_ I would never do that to you!"

"I—" Arthur began uncomfortably.

"Wait, let me finish," Alfred interrupted. "What I'm saying is... that I had time to think about stuff today when I was wandering around looking at all your neat landmarks. I guess I overreacted too. I didn't mean to upset you and... now that I think about it, I guess _I_ wouldn't be too happy if I thought someone was trying to make me do something I probably wouldn't do otherwise. I don't think I'd flip out like you did this morning – unless it was Ivan, of course – but I can kind of see where you're coming from now and I'm sorry I made you feel like that."

There. That was it. That was all Arthur had wanted. Relieved, forgetting about everything Francis had said, he rose from his seat and came around the desk, ready to accept Alfred's apology and perhaps return the favour—

"In fact," Alfred went on, ignoring the fact that Arthur was approaching him as he began to rifle in his pocket, "I was thinking about a lot of stuff today – I think I needed to get out by myself to clear my head – and I came to a decision since we have that Special Relationship thing your boss came up with going and all, _so_..."

Oh. Oh no. Arthur froze as he saw the little velvet box come out of Alfred's pocket and actually took a step or two backwards as it was opened in front of him. Something gleamed inside it, brilliant by the light of his desk lamp, but he didn't even look at it.

Alfred always had to spoil everything by overstepping the mark, didn't he?

"How about it, Artie?" Alfred seemed oblivious to the fact that Arthur refused to even glance at the ring.

"Arthur," Arthur corrected in a low voice. It was all he could say as the rage began to build inside him again. He hadn't thought Alfred was quite _this_ manipulative...

Alfred blinked.

"What?"

"I said my name is _Arthur_," Arthur bit out, still not looking in his direction.

"Okay, _Arthur_," Alfred said, beginning to sound uneasy. "...Is that a yes?"

The gall of him was unbelievable. Arthur clenched his fists and counted inside his head to calm himself down.

"Of course it's not a yes," he replied tersely. He took a deep breath. "Why are you doing this, Alfred? Why now, why today, completely... out of the blue like this?"

"It's not out of the blue!" Alfred protested. "I _have_ mentioned marriage before and _you_ said—"

"That it was something I'd rather discuss at a time when my knickers weren't around my ankles."

"Well," Alfred said expressionlessly, "it doesn't look to me like they're around your ankles now." He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless you want them to be."

"Don't turn this into a joke!" Arthur seethed; he reached out and snapped the ring box shut. "Put that away – I'm not marrying you. I don't know why you're even asking me."

Alfred looked very hurt, clutching the blue velvet box in his palm.

"Because I _love_ you!" he said incredulously. "Why _else_ would I ask you to marry me?"

Something in Arthur _snapped_.

"Oh, let's see, shall we?" he asked angrily. "Attempting to win your way back into my favour with a romantic gesture and a ring, perhaps – I mean, for all you knew, simply saying you were sorry might not have cut it! I am aware that you like to play the fool, Alfred, but let's not forget just how _well_ I know you – you're just as sly as anyone else when you want your own way."

Alfred looked stunned.

"...Are you _serious_?" he choked out eventually. "Do you really think I would go to all this trouble just to get you to stop being pissed off at me? I mean, first of all, that's totally stupid, I know you just wanted me to apologise and I didn't have to do this; and secondly, do you know how much this ring _cost_? If I wasn't serious and was just doing this to win you back again, I sure as hell wouldn't have bought such an expensive ring!"

"Oh, money _again_!" Arthur exploded. "Well, enjoy your prosperity while you can, Alfred, because it won't last much longer if you keep trying to buy your way into my good books!"

"How can you say that when you won't even _look_ at it?" Alfred snapped, clutching the closed box tighter in his hand.

"I won't look at it because I don't _want_ it! I don't care how much it cost you, I don't care how many first-edition copies of _Peter Pan_ you can buy me or how many flashy Walt Disney premieres you can take me to! Why do you have to constantly remind me that things aren't the way they used to be? Everything has changed and I have to accept that even if I don't like it – I know I was greedy when I was an Empire but you don't have to court me that way to make me happy!"

"Then how _do_ I make you happy, Arthur?" Alfred asked flatly, finally putting the ring back in his pocket. "Tell me, because I've just realised that I have absolutely _no idea_ how to please you. You throw everything I do for you back in my face."

"Well, you can start by not mocking me!"

"How am I _mocking_ you?" Alfred looked like he was on the verge of tearing out his hair. "Jesus H. Christ, Arthur – you are, without a doubt, completely _crazy_. I can't do anything for you without you jumping to some kind of stupid conclusion – no wonder you like those fucking Sherlock Holmes books so much, always running around accusing me of stuff like you're some kind of detective yourself!"

"Oh, I'm crazy, am I?" Arthur spat. "Asking me to marry you, making me think that a ring has sealed it, that you'll be mine forever... Do you think I'm _stupid_, Alfred? We've been there already, haven't we? Don't ridicule me with a wedding ring when you've left me before!"

"Why do you _always_ have to bring that up?" Alfred threw back at him. "It was so long ago and everything was different back then – it's not like we were married or anything, hell, we weren't even _together_, it was just this whole ruler-colony thing—"

"That doesn't _matter_!" Arthur yelled at him, barely able to restrain himself. "My God, why do you think details like that matter? You broke my heart and nothing will ever change that!"

"Okay, whoa, you aren't even making any sense," Alfred said exasperatedly. "I left you like a century and a half ago, we're together now and have been for twelve years, I ask you to marry me so that we'll always be together and you say no because I left you like a century and a half ago." He shook his head almost desperately. "I had no idea you were this insecure."

"Why _shouldn't_ I be? I thought you loved me back then and it didn't stop you walking away from me!"

"Arthur, I'm not going to leave you, for God's sake," Alfred groaned. "Why are you being like this all of a sudden? You've been skittish and quiet all week – are you really telling me that it's because you think one day I'm going to decide I don't want you anymore because I feel like I can do better?"

Hearing Alfred say it touched a nerve. Arthur knew he was going to cry and turned away, trying to stifle the quiet sobs with his hand. He hated weeping in front of Alfred but for some reason... Alfred was good at making him cry, even if he didn't mean to.

He heard Alfred move behind him and felt his large hands rest on his shoulders a moment later.

"Artie—"

"_My name is Arthur!_" Arthur screeched, completely losing his temper. He couldn't remember ever being this angry – at least not during the twelve years he and Alfred had been together. "Are you fucking _deaf_, Alfred?"

Alfred recoiled, taking his hands off Arthur's shoulders. Arthur dipped his head as Alfred moved away from him, the first tears hitting the rich red carpet; he wasn't just angry at Alfred, also at himself for his stupid pride, at Francis for making him think further ill of Alfred, because they spoke the same language and yet couldn't seem to communicate at all.

Possessing patience when the occasion called for it, Alfred had it in him to try once more:

"Please don't cry, Arthur," he said quietly. "Look, if you want to talk—"

"Get out," Arthur hissed, not turning to him. He couldn't, _couldn't_ stand for Alfred to be kind to him; his gentle tone ran all over Arthur's skin and burrowed under it and made him shudder with guilt and anger.

Alfred sighed heavily.

"Fine," he said. He turned on his heel and left the study, Arthur watching his shadow retreat on the opposite wall. "Goodnight."

Arthur listened for him on the stairs, for perhaps the slam of the front door again; but all he heard was the door at the other end of the hall open and then close again. Alfred had gone into the guest bedroom.

Arthur went back to his desk and sat down, suddenly exhausted; he wiped at his face on the sleeve of his cardigan as he reached for his pen with his other hand. He didn't feel much like working anymore but he had to get it done for the meeting tomorrow morning, anger be damned.

The first few words he wrote were wobbly. He hadn't formed letters so shakily in a long time, not even first thing in the morning.

Looking at them, small and sickly on the page, he realised that _he_ had had no idea he was this insecure either.

* * *

...That could have gone better, amirite? Poor Alfred – _not_ the result he was hoping for. :(

Also: _This_ is what it was like back in the day before iPhones! Lawl, I love those old circle-dial phones...

**Hands up for a historical inaccuracy:**Marriage (or civil partnership) between two members of the same gender was not legal in the 1950s. As far as Alfie and Artie go, it became legal in the United States in 2004 (in Massachusetts, the first state to allow same-sex marriages) and legal in the United Kingdom also in 2004. _However_... I wanted to put it in because I've always felt that marriage between two characters in a _Hetalia_ context isn't *quite* the same as a marriage between two people in what we might call the "real world" and does, in fact, represent an alliance (like Austria and Hungary's canon marriage representing the Austro-Hungarian Empire). Yes, Alfred proposed out of love but a marriage between him and Arthur would reflect the Special Relationship and the USUK military alliance, which were both very strong in the aftermath of WWII. So, yes, that's the one historical fact I am ignoring with this fic, haha (and besides, I maintain that Winston Churchill – Arthur's boss – would approve. Heartily.)

_**Les Misérables**_ is two things, one a long-running French, West-End and Broadway show – it first premiered in 1980 in France and, being still on stage in London's West End, has been running for 25 years. Yes, it's not as old as the 1950s and the show, therefore, is not what Arthur was referring to when observing Francis' melodramatic ways; he was thinking of the original novel _Les Misérables_, first published in 1862 and written by Victor Hugo (who also wrote _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_).

**Piccadilly Circus **is a borough of London (and not an _actual_ circus, despite the name).

**On Arthur crying:** His being reduced to tears is kind of canon, lolololol. I don't know how well this reflects on my actual country but it seems to me like Arthur/England is kind of a crybaby over certain things (mostly to do with America) in the series. XD

Alfred has only one chapter left to win back Arthur's affection – a tall order given that the ultimate romantic gesture didn't work – _and_ get a result from his master plan. Can he do it now that Arthur's post-Imperialism insecurities are beginning to unravel their relationship?

Stay tuned to find out next Friday – same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!

XD

RobinRocks xXx

P.S: Sherlock Holmes and Mercutio strike again. -_-


	8. Loved

My apologies – I know we're a day late! This chapter was already halfway-written when I posted Ch 7 last week but it ended up getting much longer than I anticipated, which is good news for you guys (I think!). It's over 13,000 words so... hurrah?

Thanks to:** shake-it-buddy, unforgivable wish, Lithium Kiss, Axxi, Synonymous Brian, hexazebra, Tamer Lorika, suzako, rae1112, too lazy to sign in, egoXlockheart, Anime18Emo, UcHiHaHyUuGa, Author and Co, Anastasya Debbie, Orange Spiral, Sexykill69, Alphan, Chibi Chibi Sami, The Wonder Bunny, allofmydreams, Xeniaph, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, cax, end butterfly, Malkeria, nocco, Ally Plz, Kuzzka, Kang Jae Gyu, OneWithManyNames, I Ran Over The Taco Bell Dog, Genki-angel-chan** and **Kunoichi-Shea**!

Well, I won't keep you too long from the last chapter – although I will note that this chapter features my oh-so-famous (har har) technique of the flashback-that-shows-how-they-got-together-in-the-first-place because I do so hate to be unpredictable. XD

And so, to begin, back to 1942 – because it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing~

A is For…

**[Armistice]**

"_Let's just put our differences aside for one night, you old stick-in-the-mud!" Alfred had said with a grin. "Come on, Glenn Miller is coming all the way here to entertain the troops so let's not spoil everything by fighting like how we usually do." _

_Well, he'd had a point. Tonight wasn't about them and it wasn't even really about the war – it was for the troops, the hardworking men and women of the Allied armed forces, a reward and a chance to kick-back for an evening. It had been Alfred's idea, of course – the best one he'd had for a while. _

"_Alright," Arthur had sighed, putting out his hand. "An armistice for tonight, you insufferable twat."_

_Alfred had shaken with him and grinned again – that bright, brilliant smile of his, the one that made him look as though he was genuinely happy to be in Arthur's company._

_...Of course, that was too much to hope; and besides, Alfred __**did**__ annoy him most of the time. _

_Which didn't stop him watching him wistfully from his seat at the edge of the crowded cafeteria-turned-dancehall. Glenn Miller and his Army Air Force Band were up at the front of the large room, playing some lively swing tune that Arthur didn't particularly recognise but rather liked, and the rest of the hall was filled with British, American and Canadian troops all jiving and jitterbugging to the music with a practiced ease. There were several WAACs and Wrens but, even with their presence, there still weren't enough girls to go around and so several soldiers were dancing with each other (or, in the case of a group of five somewhat-drunk Americans, all clasping hands and prancing around in a circle with their ties tied like bandanas around their heads); of course, it didn't help that Francis, whom Arthur had seen skulking about somewhere earlier, was – bizarrely – something of a lady-magnet and probably had half the WAACs and Wrens hanging off him in one way or another._

_Alfred, in full uniform right down to his garrison cap – only missing his heavy bomber jacket – was trying to teach a pretty redheaded Wren to jitterbug; she didn't seem to be much getting the hang of it but looked thrilled to have attracted this handsome American soldier's attention, flushing and giggling every time he put his hand on her waist to guide her or twirled her under his arm. _

_Arthur was absolutely in no way remotely jealous but watching the girl take up Alfred's interest did make him feel a bit lonely. He'd been willing to be friendly tonight (having had a drink or two) and had hoped that Alfred might want to talk to him, particularly since the American had gone out of his way to plead with Arthur not to be his usual prickly-picking-fights-self._

_What a waste of an armistice._

_Matthew, looking a bit worried, came over to him._

"_Arthur, have you seen Francis?" he asked quietly, his tone pleading. "I haven't seen him for about an hour and I did tell him not to make a nuisance of himself since... well, he did sort of just follow me here—"_

"_I wondered how he got in," Arthur said flatly. "The time I saw him, he was spiriting away more of Alfred's WAACs than I cared to count."_

_Matthew paled a shade and scurried off, gnawing worriedly at his bottom lip. Arthur barely had time to lament his loneliness again when Matthew was replaced by Alfred, who seemed to appear out of nowhere – looking rather pleased with himself, no less._

"_Hey, Artie!" he trilled, beaming at him. _

"_Arthur," Arthur corrected immediately; he couldn't help but regard Alfred with some suspicion, wondering why he was strutting over here all smiles like that. "Where's your flame-haired temptress?"_

"_Gone," Alfred said airily, not sounded too perturbed. "Fellow Yank relieved me of her – said I was teaching her the dance wrong or something, which is dumb, you know, since I, like, __**invented**__ the Jitterbug!" _

"_No you didn't," Arthur sighed. "You copied it from a bunch of teenagers, I expect."_

_Alfred stuck his tongue out at him._

"_Tch, lighten up!" he said. "What's the matter, don't like the music?"_

"_The music is fine, thankyou," Arthur replied shortly, narrowing his eyes at Alfred. "Don't you have someone else to pester?"_

_Alfred gave an exaggerated, agonised groan._

"_Artie, we had an armistice!" he wailed. "You promised to be nice, remember?" He suddenly brightened again, holding out his hand towards Arthur. "Hey, come dance with me! Old Glenn will cheer you up in no time!"_

_Arthur actually shrank back from his offered hand._

"_Ah, n-no, that's quite alright, thankyou," he said quickly. "I'm happy just sitting here, Alfred."_

"_Oh, don't be such a wallflower!" Alfred pouted. "Come on, just one dance!"_

"_I'm not terribly good at dancing," Arthur tried again, still not taking Alfred's hand._

_Alfred laughed._

"_Me neither, apparently!" he replied cheerfully. "Taught that poor British Wren the dance wrong, remember? Come on, Artie – come dance with me and we'll suck complete ass together, okay?" _

_Arthur had run out of excuses. He looked at Alfred's hand and then up at his face; the American's brilliant smile had begun to waver a little bit, beginning to take on shades of uncertainty and imploring—_

"_Mon dieu," Francis drawled as he sauntered past with one arm around a rather disconcerted-looking Matthew and two Wrens and a WAAC all hanging from the other, "dance with the poor boy, Arthur. It will be good for your heart and soul – not to mention his—" _

"_Mind your own bleeding business, Francis!" Arthur snapped, jumping up—_

_Which had been a mistake. With a gleeful laugh, Alfred seized Arthur and dragged him onto the "dance-floor" while Francis made a cackling getaway with his four prizes._

"_Alfred—!" Arthur was cut off as an apologetic Canadian soldier accidentally knocked him against Alfred's broad chest._

"_Hey, you okay?" Alfred put him right again, his hands lingering on Arthur's shoulders; he was fidgeting absently with Arthur's officer's belt when spoke again: "Well, you're up here now, so one dance it is, right?"_

"_Ugh, you're a pain in the arse, you know that?" Arthur muttered, prying Alfred's hand from his officer's belt. "Alright, one dance, you utter pest."_

"_Yay!" Alfred crushed him a quick hug. "You're the best!"_

"_Yes, yes, alright!" Arthur disentangled Alfred and composed himself with a cough, hoping that the warmness of his face wasn't showing – he was so white that any kind of blush decked itself out for the occasion and Alfred, usually the cause of the blush to begin with and being mean and tactless and downright rude, always teased him, making it worse. "Come on, let's get on with it!"_

"_Sure thing, Artie." Alfred flashed him another winning smile and said nothing about Arthur's blush._

"_Arthur," Arthur corrected, more to distract himself as Alfred put his arms around him in the leading position. _

"_Sure thing, Artie." Alfred winked at him and Arthur wanted very very much to get away from him and go and hide and treasure this moment forever whilst also avoiding Alfred for the rest of his life._

_He also wanted – just to be antagonistic – to question why Alfred was leading and why he, Arthur, had to take the female role in the dance; basically, he was very torn about this whole thing, half-wanting to kiss Alfred and half-wanting to punch his lights out. _

_He didn't get a chance to do any of those things. Glenn Miller and his band started up a new song, a fast-paced swing number, and Alfred was off like a racehorse; incidentally, Arthur could see why Alfred might have been chided for teaching the Wren the dance wrongly, for he was under the impression that Alfred __**did**__ know all the steps – just not necessarily in the right order. All the dance-couples around them moved more or less in complete unison and __**they**__ sort of did their own thing right in the middle of everyone, Alfred whirling Arthur under his arm when everyone else was sweeping their partner to the floor or rocking him right backwards when everyone else was lifting their partner over their head. At first Arthur was rather self-conscious that they were doing it so noticeably different to everyone else but Alfred just grinned and shrugged at him and he realised that nobody really seemed to mind and that, surprisingly, Alfred was actually quite a good dancer in a putting-his-own-spin-on-the-moves sort of way – and it all began to remind him of the old court parties or drunken revelries on stolen ships or when Alfred, a child who barely came up to his waist, took hold of his hands and wanted to dance on his feet. Alfred smiled at him, seeming to sense that he was beginning to enjoy himself, and for once Arthur didn't scowl back. He remembered the armistice and returned the smile. _

_When the song finished with a tuneful flourish, however, Arthur couldn't deny that he felt a bit dizzy – probably from the unwise shaken-not-stirred cocktail of energetic dancing and the two alcoholic beverages inside him. He didn't think that he was going to be sick but he stumbled a bit and Alfred caught him._

"_You alright?" Alfred asked, sounding concerned as he took hold of Arthur's arms to steady him._

"_Y-yes, I'm quite alright," Arthur replied, feeling his head clear again as he rested against Alfred long enough to get his bearings. "Yes, that ought to do it..."_

_He shook his head and stepped back – but Alfred was still holding his elbows. He looked up at him and felt his stomach perform some kind of impressive Olympic-level acrobatic when he saw that Alfred was gazing down at him with a very strange expression on his face – admiring, yearning, almost... loving. _

_Alfred appeared to hesitate for a moment before coming to some sort of decision; he ran his tongue over his bottom lip and dipped his head a little, as though he meant to—_

_Arthur panicked and tore himself out of Alfred's grasp, stepping away with a false smile plastered on his face._

"_Well, yes, that's... that's that, then!" He forced a laugh and turned away from Alfred, waving over his shoulder to him as he quickly marched away. "One dance, Alfred! That's all I promised!"_

_There was his chair – his wonderful-wallflower-chair in a nice safe corner—_

"_Arthur! Arthur, wait!"_

_Arthur froze, weighed up his options and then, finally, turned towards Alfred somewhat-wearily, sincerely hoping that the prat didn't plan on dragging him back out onto the dance-floor for another round to try and cover up the sudden awkwardness between them._

"_What is it, Alfred?" _

_He said it with a sigh – a bored, tired, same-old sigh. His interactions with Alfred were always so very frustrating these days, what with them catching each other's lingering gazes from time to time and Alfred getting embarrassed and looking away and then covering up for it a moment later by making some completely uncalled-for comment about Arthur's eyebrows or cooking or very existence and bringing his hopes crashing down again. He sincerely hoped that this wasn't going to be another of those instances, Alfred about to spoil what had been a... reasonably pleasant moment between them, all things considered._

"_Um..." Alfred stopped in front of him and took a deep breath, seeming as though he was bracing himself. "Look, about what just... no, wait..." He waved his hands dismissively and tried again. "I know we argue most of the time and all, but I was... I mean, I was just... well, I wondered if maybe some time you'd like to... t-to maybe, um..."_

_Oh. Oh god. The armistice was one thing but was Alfred... trying to ask him out on a date or something? Arthur felt like an idiot for it but he could practically hear his heart-rate picking up as he looked at Alfred, who was trying to meet his gaze and not managing it – who knew Alfred F. Jones, Almighty Hero Extraordinaire, could be so terribly shy?_

_Alfred shuddered to a complete stop, biting frustratedly at his bottom lip._

"_Wow, I suck at this," he muttered; he beamed at Arthur, although it looked perhaps a little too forced. "Um, okay, look... I sort of... __**like**__ you, so..." He looked away again, rubbing abashedly at the back of his hair. "A-and... I sort of figured that, well, you don't exactly hate me either, at least I hope you don't, so... maybe you wouldn't be too adverse to perhaps giving me a chance?"_

_Arthur was silent. He didn't know what to say. He merely blinked at Alfred, sort of stunned. _

_Alfred paled a bit, seeming to panic a little at the silence._

"_Uh, w-well, I mean, you can think about it, if you want," he said. "It's no big deal, but like I said, I know we fight a lot and sometimes I'm kind of a jerk to you – not that you haven't been a jerk too – but... um, please?"_

_Alfred looked at him pleadingly, looking like he was on the verge of clasping his hands together and literally begging._

_Arthur still had no clue how to react. He didn't know whether to dismiss Alfred and say no as a way of saving face (because Francis, who was undoubtedly lurking about here somewhere, would never let him live it down despite the fact that he often encouraged Arthur to "put himself out of his misery"). He didn't know whether to smile and throw his arms around Alfred in delight and relief. He didn't know whether to just laugh at Alfred's strangely out-of-character technique at attempting to get himself a date._

"_Arthur?" Alfred tilted his head confusedly, waving his hand in front of Arthur's face. "Are you okay? Did I break you?"_

_Arthur finally (forcefully) shook himself out of his stupor._

"_Yes, sorry, I just..." He gave a shake of his head. "It's just... not like you, Alfred. To be so delicate about such a matter, I mean."_

_Alfred nodded in agreement, seeming thoughtful._

"_Say, you know, you're right," he said. "It's unheroic to stammer and stutter. Thanks for setting me square." He put his hands on his hips and puffed up his chest, looking down at Arthur haughtily. "You will come with me and be my wench, you... wench!" he declared._

_Arthur whirled away from him. He couldn't help it. He was going to laugh._

_Alfred, contrarily, panicked again and flapped around him._

"_Ah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he cried. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything, I was just..." He gripped at his hair in frustration. "...Crap, I was just..."_

_Arthur turned towards him again with a smile and a shake of his head. It was endearing; he felt a sudden warm rush of affection – old love that came from knowing Alfred for centuries – as he watched him stumble over trying to articulate what he meant. Alfred was twisting his hands together nervously, having ground to another complete halt, and Arthur reached out and took them in his as though he was a child again._

_Alfred looked at him in utter relief and gave a sigh, gripping Arthur's hands tighter._

"_I love you, Arthur," he said easily. "I've thought about it for a long time. I wanted to be sure because of everything that's happened between us and also because, you know, we're total opposites and I'm way more awesome than you, but... that's how it is. I'm sure – and I'm sure because I've always loved you, even when it seemed like I didn't, even when I thought I didn't. I love you and if you don't want me, well, I guess that's okay, but I don't want anyone else." He gave a humorous grimace. "I know I'm harping on like Bing Crosby or someone in one of those Christmas movies but... you're the only one for me, Artie, and you always have been and you always will be. It's just plain crazy how much I love you. I guess sometimes it probably doesn't seem like it but I'd do anything for you, you know."_

"_I see." Arthur squeezed Alfred's hands. He was thrilled, ecstatic, grateful; but he wasn't going to throw his arms around Alfred's neck, he wasn't going to gush like a girl or blush like a new bride. He would be a gentleman about all this, given that they were, after all, in public. "Well then, Alfred, what say you do something for me right now?"_

"_Anything, Artie."_

"_**Two**__ things," Arthur amended. "First, stop calling me 'Artie'. Second..." He smirked and took hold of Alfred by his tie. "...Come here and kiss me."_

_Now that he was in command of the situation, Arthur didn't panic, pulling Alfred down close; there was a long moment before their mouths met, both hesitating, neither quite sure who was to initiate the contact, and then Alfred took Arthur's shoulders and pulled at him and closed the gap. It was plain but perfect – Alfred didn't taste like a hamburger, he didn't taste like Coca-Cola, he just tasted normal, maybe a little like cigarette smoke, and he put his arms around Arthur and brought him closer still. Arthur threaded his fingers in Alfred's gold hair and under his hat and sighed contentedly into the kiss. At last, at last._

_Alfred broke the kiss, gasping for breath (he hadn't breathed through his nose, apparently) and rather red in the face, although Arthur couldn't tell if it was from a lack of air or mere embarrassment._

_Arthur smiled at him and patted his cheek fondly._

"_Good show, old boy," he said._

—

Arthur was facing the empty side of the bed Alfred usually slept in when he woke to his alarm; he gazed miserably at it as he reached out for his little tin alarm clock and turned it off. It was seven in the morning, giving him a full two hours to get ready, have breakfast and get to the meeting at Downing Street for nine.

Ugh. He didn't feel much like moving. It was a dark October morning and he could hear the rain lashing down outside. Still, perhaps it was a good thing Alfred hadn't slept in here with him last night – he wasn't tired and aching from two rounds of sex, he wasn't bruised from being shunted out onto the floor at four in the morning and Alfred wasn't here now to sleepily cling to him and try to keep him in the bed so that he had something to cuddle.

Arthur was still very angry with Alfred and, yes, all things considered, he was actually a pretty terrible bed-mate; but still... his absence was very noticeable (probably because he sprawled out and took up most of the mattress) and, angry at him or not, Arthur was a bit put out that he didn't get to snuggle under Alfred's arm for a blissful five minutes more before he got up.

He dragged himself out of bed and showered and dressed in a sort of trance, his mind thoroughly elsewhere; on his notes and his budget proposals, if he'd done enough and if his boss would agree with his suggestions and, even if _he_ did, if they'd be able to get the cabinet to agree to make changes here and compromises there to get Great Britain out of the post-war recession...

It was only as he was absently checking his appearance in the dresser mirror, making sure his gold hair was as flat as he could make it, that he realised that he'd put on a tie that Alfred had given him, a dark blue silk one that complimented the charcoal-grey suit he was wearing. He was still so steamed at Alfred for his idiotic, thoughtless behaviour last night that he debated taking it off and changing it – but a quick look at his tie rack informed him that the only other tie that matched this suit this well was the wine-coloured one that he had lent to Alfred and Alfred had dropped ice-cream down and then tossed back into Arthur's cupboard without telling him. By the time Arthur had found it and washed it, the stain had become sort of... permanent; Alfred had, in fact, bought him the blue tie as an apology, a sort of peace-offering to help forge an armistice so that Arthur wouldn't chew him out again.

Even more irritated, Arthur slammed his wardrobe shut again and stomped downstairs to go and get some breakfast. Looking at the rain outside the kitchen window as he waited for the kettle to boil didn't help his mood much but by the time he had eaten and was finishing off his cooling tea, he had calmed enough to even be half-amused by the sound of Alfred scampering about upstairs, knowing that he hadn't come down to the kitchen to forage for food because he didn't want Arthur to shout at him again.

Well, Arthur was annoyed and he wasn't about to forgive Alfred just like that; but he wasn't _completely_ heartless and he made Alfred a cup of coffee, bringing it upstairs with him when he went to go and retrieve his briefcase from the study. The door to the guest bedroom was cracked open a little, proof that Alfred had been out; Arthur nudged it open properly and came into the room. Alfred was back in bed, sound asleep if the contented little snores were anything to go by, sprawled on his stomach with the sheets half on the floor and one leg trailing after them.

Arthur very quietly brought the coffee to the bedside table and carefully put it next to Alfred's glasses; he couldn't help fidgeting with the sheets a bit, trying to pull them over Alfred properly so that he wouldn't get cold, but his fussing woke the American up.

"Arthur?" Alfred asked groggily, squinting sleepily at him.

Arthur straightened and looked away.

"I made you some coffee to wake you up so that you don't lie in bed until gone noon, you lazy git," he said frostily. "Drink it before it gets cold."

"T-thanks... I think?" Alfred murmured.

Arthur gave a snort and started away out of the room again.

"I have to get to my meeting," he said, pausing at the door. "It will probably run on until late tonight so I shouldn't bother to wait up for me if I were you. There's food in the kitchen if you get hungry."

He stalked out without another word, not waiting for Alfred to reply, and closed the door behind him. There, that ought to show the idiot that he wasn't going to be forgiven _that_ easily.

Arthur really wasn't in the mood for forming any armistices with Alfred today.

**[Apologise]**

The rain was still coming down hard during the mid-morning break. Officials and MPs flitted about dazedly and mumbled to each other over weak tea and weaker coffee; Arthur sat in a corner of the meeting room by himself and nursed a particularly-vile specimen of the former (it tasted as though there had still been a little washing-up liquid in the cup when the tea went in). It really shouldn't have been too much to ask for a group of high-ranking parliamentary officials and representatives to at least be able to get a decent cup of tea but it was just one of those gloomy grey days where the tea-ladies didn't care and all who drank of their poison grumbled but didn't have the heart or the motivation to complain and merely apologised to one another for how awful it was at every grimace-sip.

Overall, it wasn't a mood that matched well with that of the meeting, but the unfortunate fact was that they hadn't managed to get a lot done so far. Arthur's boss – Sir Winston Churchill, the man who had won the war for them at the price they were now paying – had looked particularly sour as he had shuffled out of the room. Arthur had tried to apologise for the way things had been going only a moment before but his boss had put up a hand to silence him.

"It isn't your fault," he had all but growled. "It's theirs – and it's their responsibility."

Putting down his over-half-full cup, Arthur found himself looking at his left hand – the one that might have had a ring on this morning. Churchill would have noticed immediately, of course. Arthur kept his private life to himself and was very quiet about his relationship with Alfred but Churchill – who was of half-British, half-American blood himself – had always been rather sensitive to relations between the two nations and had known from almost Day One, merely nodding his approval. Arthur supposed it was nice to have a boss who accepted and even encouraged his relationship without prying into it to see where the political or economic advantages lay but he couldn't help but feel that, if Churchill knew that he, Arthur, had turned down a marriage proposal from Alfred, he would probably frogmarch him home right this instant to say yes before bundling the pair of them into a car to take them straight to St Paul's Cathedral for the ceremony, so dedicated was he to promoting the historical, cultural and linguistic closeness of Great Britain and the United States.

Really, Arthur thought wearily, it seemed as though his boss encouraged their relationship at every turn because he couldn't wait for it to bear fruit, so to speak, like a father getting on in years who longed to be a grandfather; perhaps stopping just short of actually inquiring if Arthur was pregnant yet and what the blazes was taking him so long every time he saw him.

Arthur wondered what Alfred had been thinking – or _if_ he had been thinking at all. It was true that Alfred _had_ mentioned marriage before, yes, but it was usually at inopportune moments when Arthur had other things to contend with and always ended up snapping at Alfred to please not bother him with such silly questions right now. Besides, he'd never thought that Alfred was really _serious_, given that he always wrapped his arms around Arthur and jokingly asked him when they were going to get him fitted for his wedding dress when Arthur was doing something particularly domestic; and how typical of him to actually ask seriously at the worst possible moment he could have picked. Arthur really despaired of Alfred's airheadedness sometimes—

And, to be honest, he often despaired of _himself_ for having fallen in love with such an idiot. All things considered, they were a rather ridiculous match given that they didn't really have anything in common and their personalities clashed and Alfred was annoying and Arthur was easily annoyed. Why couldn't it have been someone more like himself – someone quiet and calm (most of the time), someone who liked books and hand-me-down folktales and old dusty things? Really, Ludwig or Roderich or Kiku were more compatible with Arthur's character than Alfred was – even _Francis_, Heaven forbid, with his appreciation for fine wines and art. Of course Arthur had loved Alfred as a child but, as the boy had bloomed into adulthood, he had never thought of him as a lover, never considered himself capable of seeing him like that. Alfred... had just been a pest, really and truly a thorn in Arthur's side, trying to annex Matthew here, showing off how wonderful he was with his Chicago World's Fair there; and it was difficult to take Alfred seriously, after all, when he was scratching in the dirt for gold and doing some sort of ridiculous victory dance every time he found a shard no bigger than a pinhead.

He had ignored Alfred since the War of Independence chiefly out of pain and partly out of condescension, growing more and more to think Alfred beneath him as the roots of the British Empire spread throughout Europe and Asia and sucked dry everything that they burrowed within; he remembered parties and world conferences where Alfred, his cravat tied wrongly and his dress jacket missing a button on the sleeve, had sort of glanced nervously at him as though wanting to talk to him but had never quite dared to, as though afraid that Arthur would either put him down or ignore him completely. Arthur hadn't particularly cared either way back then, too busy holding court with all his colonies and admirers clustered around him, but he had thought once or twice that it was sort of a shame that Alfred was scared to talk to him now when he had once clung to his sleeve and begged for stories about knights and princesses and witches and heroes.

In the First World War, Alfred had grown up somewhat and Arthur grudgingly came to respect him a little bit; still, he had never viewed Alfred as an equal and, if he was honest, he had rather resented that it had taken Alfred so long to come to the Allies' aid when both himself and Matthew had written to Alfred to tell him how dire the situation was. When the war ended and Alfred buggered off again, washing his hands of the mess left in the aftermath of the war, Arthur really couldn't help but be very angry with him for his selfishness – but Alfred had sort of done a whole "Nyah nyah, not listening!" routine with his fingers in his ears and Arthur had given up, deciding to let him stew in his own juice, for all it was worth.

When the Second World War broke out, Arthur hadn't expected much from Alfred; it was, in fact, his boss – Winston Churchill, serving his first term as Prime Minister – who had had more faith in the United States of America, constantly exchanging letters and telephone calls and information with Alfred's boss, Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"He will come, Arthur," Churchill had promised. "I assure you that once he and the president realise that there is no other option, they will come to our aid. You can always count on Americans to do the right thing – once they've tried everything else."

Of course, when Kiku proved to be more reckless than Arthur would ever have thought possible, Alfred was up in arms immediately; it couldn't be denied that Alfred had tripped over himself to get to the front lines so he could rearrange Kiku's face but the fact was that, seeing Alfred immerse himself in the Allied war effort, Arthur couldn't help but feel that Alfred really _did_ seem to want to help—

And not just for himself. There was something about this war, something that made _both_ sides stick closer together as though they were all fighting for each other as well as for themselves – even Arthur, who had spent the entirety of the First World War worrying about which parts of his Empire would still be in one piece and worth anything to him once the fighting was over, hadn't given a second thought to his hegemony when he declared war in 1939. He was going to lose his Empire in this war and he knew it but it didn't matter the way it had in 1918. He saw the change in Alfred, too, he saw how he had grown and grown _up_, and he didn't resent him for it – for the first time, they felt like real team-mates and, even though they still argued an awful lot, sort of... friends.

Then it started to slide out of his control and he began to blush whenever Alfred came within three feet of him and he realised, to his disgust and utter mortification, that he had – at best – developed a crush on Alfred and – at worst – fallen in love with him. Which was just _awful_ because _yes_ Alfred had grown up to be very handsome and _yes_ he wasn't the selfish gold-hunting recluse he had been a century ago but he _was_ still loud and obnoxious and an idiot—

But it didn't matter anyway because Alfred didn't like him back and he never would; really, what on Earth would he want with Arthur, the man who had cared for him when he was a child? Why would he want someone old and kind of grouchy and who had once been the world's largest empire, sure, but was clearly going to come out of this war with barely two sixpences to rub together?

"Ah, but love is blind, mon ami," Francis had been fond of purring even back then.

And it was true – or, at least, _Alfred_ was blind. Which might have been funnier if only Alfred wasn't actually short-sighted and Arthur sometimes gloomily thought that if only Alfred would bother to clean his glasses once in a while, he might see Arthur for what he was: more-or-less bankrupt, amongst other things.

Arthur shook himself out of his reverie and sighed irritably. He had wanted to go over one of his proposals during the break and had spent most of it staring into space instead. Typical Alfred, distracting him even when he wasn't here... Arthur reached for his briefcase and sat it on the desk, opening it up and taking out one of his neat cardboard manila files; as he removed it, something slipped out and went spinning to the floor. Tutting, Arthur slapped the file onto the desk and bent to retrieve the escapee, turning it over in his hand as he picked it up.

It was an envelope – and it was addressed to him.

In what was unmistakably Alfred's handwriting.

Arthur hesitated, his stomach sinking. The last time he had read something in Alfred's scrawl, things... hadn't ended up going so well. Just thinking about that little list still made his blood boil even though he knew that Alfred hadn't meant any harm by it. However...

This was addressed to him. It said '_To Arthur Kirkland_' on it, accompanied by a rather wobbly smiley face. This was meant for him – Alfred _wanted_ him to read it.

So he did.

_Dear Arthur,_

_This isn't the way I wanted to approach this, you jerk, because it's unheroic to not just say this stuff to your face, but I figure that you're probably not going to give me the time of day for the next week, and I know you like reading, even if it's just boring old Shakespeare, so read this:_

_I'm sorry._

_There, I apologized, so please stop yelling at me, and stop ignoring me and stop being mean and stop crying. I admit I like to tease you sometimes and make you mad because it's kind of funny, but I really didn't mean to make you actually angry the way you are now and I didn't mean to upset you when I proposed. I thought you were over not taking me seriously so I guess I figured that you wouldn't think I was making fun of you or manipulating you when I asked you to marry me. My bad. Anyway, I'm __sorry_, _so you should forgive me. That would be awesome._

_Alfred_

Further down the page, as though the idiot had been deliberating painfully about writing it – maybe having even folded the letter once to put it in the envelope before changing his mind and deciding to make the addition – was a rather lengthy postscript. Alfred's handwriting wasn't quite as neat here, looking rushed (or, maybe... _embarrassed_?).

_P.S: Since I know what you're like and bet that you're rolling your eyes at this right now, maybe laughing at my last-ditch effort to kiss your ass into forgiving me, suck on this: You should forgive me because I love you. Sometimes I don't really know why (no offense) because you're grumpy and boring and not as awesome as me, but I do and I always have and I always will. And I say 'sometimes' because most of the time I know exactly why I love you. I'm not going to list why because you'll just get embarrassed and ticked and come home and yell at me that you're not all the things that I say you are, but it doesn't change the fact that I have my reasons and I'll always have them so there. I didn't ask you to marry me so that you would forgive me for that list – or so that you would call me 'Alfie'. I asked you because I want to always be with you, to experience everything with you, to bind us together with more than just an alliance decided by our bosses in the 1940s – and I want that because I love you._

_I love you, Arthur Kirkland, and if you get mad about __that_,_ I'll kick your ass._

Well, at least Arthur now knew why Alfred had been scuttling about upstairs this morning, probably thinking he was being very subtle and sneaky and silent; although Arthur had to hand it to him that he got results.

Alfred certainly was an idiot but he made Arthur smile.

—

_It was ridiculous that he had known Alfred for all this time and yet only now came to learn his way around him; holding him in his arms when he was a child was quite unlike this, quite unlike being wrapped up in him, discovering the shape of him by touch and touch alone. Alfred had very broad shoulders but the incline of them was gentle, his chest was firm with muscle but he was soft in other places, softer than Arthur would have expected – and ticklish, too, so that sometimes he pulled away with an undignified giggle when Arthur dug his fingers in too hard. His waist was narrower under Arthur's hands than it looked, complimenting the way he curved out again around his hips better than his bulky uniform gave his form credit for; not feminine but sort of smooth as though he actually had a fairly good figure underneath all these layers._

"_You like what you see?" Alfred asked teasingly, breaking the kiss. "Or feel, at least?"_

"_You have a nice arse," Arthur admitted, sliding his hands down over it._

"_That's a compliment, right?"_

"_Of course, given that I thought it would be much fatter – after all, you do pack away those vile burger things like there's no tomorrow."_

_Alfred beamed._

"_Thanks, Artie." He patted Arthur's thigh. "This is a very nice leg you have slung up practically around my waist. I had no idea you were this flexible!"_

"_I assume that's a compliment?"_

"_Of course – you know, given that you're so old!"_

_Arthur rolled his eyes._

"_Touché, Alfred," he muttered._

"_You can touché me all you want," Alfred said, smirking suggestively. _

_He leaned in for another kiss before Arthur could correct him or do anything about it; Arthur, in a much better mood than he had been in not even half an hour ago, indulged him, leaning upwards again—_

"_I heard my beautiful language being taken in vain," Francis said loudly as he stopped beside them; he tilted his head in fascination, grinning obscenely. "...Oho, what have we here?"_

_Arthur wrestled away from Alfred, his face burning._

"_Nothing," he spat. "Go away! Mind your own business!"_

_Francis did not go away or mind his own business; instead he gleefully rubbed his hands together, looking from Arthur to Alfred and then back again._

"_Well," he purred delightedly, "it looks to me that our star-crossed lovers have finally... crossed, shall we say?"_

"_Ugh, don't abuse Shakespeare like that," Arthur growled disgustedly. "Do piss off, won't you?"_

"_Non, non!" Francis cosied up between them. "Surely you have room for Big Brother too?"_

"_I said piss off," Arthur snapped, thoroughly irked by Francis' appearance. _

"_Ah, Arthur, mon ami," Francis sighed, "too much to say, as usual." He turned towards Alfred, all smiles. "What do __**you**__ think, hmm? Big Brother can make things very interesting – just ask __**your**__ lovely brother."_

_Alfred simply grinned and pushed Francis very firmly away._

"_Like Artie said," he replied, closing the gap between himself and Arthur again, "mind your own fucking business."_

_Francis looked wounded._

"_I am hurt!" he declared. "You express your infatuation so publicly, wrapped around each other within the throes of passion, and yet are affronted when someone – such as myself – politely implores for an invitation to join the festivities! It is most rude of you!"_

"_Then we'll take our "throes of passion" elsewhere," Arthur said coldly. "Far away from you – so as not to offend you, you understand."_

_He tugged at Alfred's sleeve and stalked away; Alfred flipped Francis off with another winning grin before scampering happily after Arthur. Francis watched them disappear into the crowd again, highly amused._

_Matthew appeared some moments later, still looking very dishevelled._

"_I just saw Alfred and Arthur looking __**very**__ friendly instead of being on the verge of ripping out each other's throats," he said in French; he rolled his eyes as Francis immediately turned to him and began to neaten him up better than he had done himself. "What happened while I was trying to get engine-room-floor-dirt off my knees?"_

"_Something very... interesting," Francis replied happily._

—

_Arthur let Alfred push him against the door the moment they were inside, winding his arms around Alfred's neck as they kissed for the first time in five minutes – which was much, much too long ago. Alfred felt blindly for the lock and slid it across after a few tries, his other arm closing around the curve of Arthur's back and pulling him close._

_Arthur had never felt this way before; oh, he knew lust, he knew need, he knew what it was to be slammed against a wooden wall in a cabin or a mud one in a makeshift bunker, he had had hungry kisses pressed searingly to every inch of his body, he had had his clothes torn frantically from him, he had taken and been taken in just about every position and location imaginable (Francis was particularly creative), he knew those things because once upon a time Europe had been like that, everyone flitting in and out of alliances and pacts with the ease of pebbles tripping over one another on the shore, all carried along by the wave of turbulence back then—_

_But he had never felt like __**this**__. No-one had ever told him that they loved him, at least not seriously; no-one had ever kissed him like this or touched him like this or held him like this. Alfred didn't want anything from him, he didn't want land or money or a map, he wasn't selling himself to Arthur for pure gain and he clearly didn't anticipate that Arthur wanted anything in return, offering himself up simply because..._

_...because he loved him._

"_What's the matter?" Alfred asked, pulling back. "Look, you don't have to worry – see, I've locked the door, and you said yourself that everyone is at the dance so they won't come back this way for hours. Besides, this is your private room, remember?" _

"_Yes, I know," Arthur replied. "It isn't that. I'm sorry, I was just... just thinking about something else, that's all."_

"_Oh." Alfred stepped back completely. "Well, I mean... if... if you think we're going too fast, we can... we don't have to—"_

"_That's not what I said, Alfred," Arthur sighed. "That's not what I said at all."_

"_Well, you don't have to. I'm sorry, it's... it's too soon, we shouldn't—"_

_Arthur grabbed Alfred by his belt and pulled him up against him again; they shared another long kiss before Alfred suddenly pulled back again._

"_Are you drunk?" he asked suspiciously – as though it had only just occurred to him to ask that now._

"_No," Arthur said quickly. "Yes—w-well, not __**drunk**__. I've had a drink. Two drinks. But I'm not drunk, per se – I mean, I'm not just doing this because I've had something to drink."_

"_Are you sure?" Alfred pressed._

"_Yes!" Arthur took Alfred by the tie this time and reeled him in again, kissing him on the corner of the mouth. "I love you, Alfred, I promise." He hesitated. "It's just..."_

"_What?" Alfred asked in a low voice; he took Arthur's hands in his again and this time Arthur couldn't help but notice that Alfred's really were much bigger than his own. "Tell me what's wrong. I want this, I've wanted this for a while, but I don't... want to push you into anything, Arthur, I don't want you to do something you'll regret—"_

"_I've done plenty of things that I've regretted," Arthur interrupted flatly. "That's just it, Alfred. I might as well be perfectly frank with you – I'm not a virgin or anything like one, none of us are in Europe because... well, things used to be different. I've slept with people I've gone to war with the following week, I've slept with people I have absolutely no reason to speak to now. It never meant anything to any of us back then and I... well, this isn't."_

_Alfred looked nervously at him, tightening his grip on his hands._

"_It isn't... what?" he asked._

"_It isn't meaningless," Arthur finished. "Or, at least, I don't want it to be – but I've never done this out of love, Alfred, so... so forgive me if it's..." He sighed irritably. "Look, I don't even know how to put this, but... I just don't want you to be upset or... or angry with me if this isn't what you were hoping for. I know how to fuck someone over a cannon barrel. I don't know how to make love. I'm sorry."_

_Alfred smiled shyly at him._

"_I don't mind," he said. "You'll try, right? I mean, if this is what... what you want to do."_

_Arthur squeezed his hands._

"_Of course I will," he whispered, "and of course it is."_

"_Then..." Alfred pulled at him, leading him towards the bed – the regimentally-made bed with creaseless, poker-straight sheets. "...Let's go over here." _

"_Yes. Alright." Arthur looked at his perfectly-made bed. "Now we're over here."_

_They stood in silence for a moment, still clasping hands._

"_So, um," Alfred said, "this is more awkward than I was expecting. I thought it was going to be more... you know, ripping off clothes and... and stuff."_

"_More "throes of passion", you mean," Arthur said flatly._

"_Yeah." Alfred frowned. "You know, like how we were when... when we were in public." He grimaced. "When Francis was obviously spying on us."_

"_That is a deeply disturbing thought," Arthur decided. "Let us pursue it no further. Look here, sit down." He pulled his hands out of Alfred's and pushed him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "I'll undress you in a fit of passion, shall I?"_

_Alfred laughed._

"_Okay."_

_Arthur straddled Alfred's lap and first reached for Alfred's glasses; Alfred caught his wrists, stopping him._

"_I want to keep them on," he explained, "so I can see you."_

"_Alright," Arthur sighed; he reached for Alfred's garrison cap instead, plucking it off his head and tossing it over his shoulder to the floor. "That can go, however."_

_He undressed Alfred very deftly; this uniform was so similar to his own that he didn't have any difficulty with any of the fastenings, knowing where they were and how they came undone without even really having to look. It was a strangely disconcerting thought, however, as he got off Alfred's lap and knelt down to unlace his boots, that this really wasn't unlike when he had undressed Alfred as a child, the boy incapable of getting out of those fancy eighteenth-century clothes by himself without getting into a tangle. He glanced up at Alfred and met his gaze – Alfred was looking at him in a rather strained fashion._

"_You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?" Arthur asked blandly._

"_I'm thinking that this is like when I was a kid and couldn't get out of my clothes without your help else I'd break my jaw by crashing into the cabinet, yeah."_

"_Right. Yes. That's... that's not a particularly welcome mental image, I have to admit." Arthur got Alfred's laces completely loose and straightened. "Just kick them off and we'll move on, shall we?"_

_Alfred kicked off his heavy combat boots and pulled off his socks as well, leaving him in only his tan-coloured uniform trousers. Arthur floundered a bit, put off by the hark-to-the-memories idea that undressing Alfred in a sexual way was sort of... inappropriate. Which was stupid, but... _

"_Uh, so, shall I undress you now?" Alfred asked, noticing that Arthur hadn't come near him again._

"_Y—No, no, I can..." Arthur loosened his tie and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor on top of Alfred's discarded garments. "It'll be quicker if I do it." He turned away as he unbuckled his belt, sliding it off his shoulder, and tossed it to the floor as he started on his jacket._

"_It's... it's not about how quick we can..." Alfred trailed off behind him, sounded a bit defeated. "Artie, are you... okay?"_

"_Never better," Arthur replied dismissively, shrugging off his jacket; he jumped as he felt Alfred reach out and grab his wrist, turning to him. "Do I not look alright?"_

"_Not really, no," Alfred admitted. "__**I**__ wanted to undress you. Why won't you let me?" _

"_Well... it's not—"_

"_It's not what – appropriate?" Alfred scowled. "Arthur, I'm not a little boy anymore – surely you can __**see**__ that!"_

_Arthur deliberately looked away – away from Alfred's matured face and broad chest._

"_I can't help it," he said bitterly. "You used to be so tiny, you used to depend on me for everything – seeing you like this, doing this with you is... is strange for me. I know it's not your fault, Alfred, but..."_

_Alfred gave a disgusted sigh, letting go of Arthur's wrist, and flopped onto the bed completely; he rolled over and faced the opposite wall, his back to Arthur as he sulked._

"_I wanted to do this like adults," he huffed, "and not worry about the past, not worry about anything that's happened between us before this... but I guess if you don't want to, then—"_

"_Alfred..." Arthur came to the bed and kicked off his own boots before clambering on himself, leaning over Alfred. "It's not... not that I don't want to but... I can't help history. I loved you so much back then but it was different, it was completely different and part of the way I love you even now... is still that old kind. I'm sorry but... it'll just take time."_

_Alfred glanced up at him moodily._

"_But you want to?"_

"_Of course I want to, you sulky brat." Arthur paused consideringly. "Although, in that event, I think... I'd prefer it if you were to... to be on top, so to speak."_

"_Of course," Alfred said, rolling onto his back again. "Anything you want, anything at all. I wouldn't make you do anything you're uncomfortable with." _

_Arthur arched an eyebrow._

"_Well, you're the first person to ever say that to me," he sighed._

"_Oh, don't make me sad, Artie, knowing you've been smacked around by total jerks for the past five hundred years," Alfred said, sitting up._

"_Longer than that – not that I haven't done my fair share of smacking around. Remember that Empire of mine, the one that is going into decline even as we speak?"_

"_Mm, yes, that sexy Empire of yours," Alfred purred sarcastically, leaning towards him. "Why don't you spank me with your Sceptre of Global Supremacy? You can wear your Royal Jerk Crown while you do it and gag me with a ruby the size of a burnt-out comet you stole from some poor Middle Eastern sucker."_

"_I like the idea of gagging you very much indeed, at least," Arthur muttered. "What is it you Yankees like to say? "Put your money where your mouth is?" Is that right?"_

"_That's right," Alfred affirmed, "and that's a great idea."_

_He reached up and took Arthur's shoulders, flipping their positions and slamming Arthur against the mattress. Arthur blinked up at him in bewilderment, lying very still as Alfred (grinning gleefully) began to unbutton his shirt. _

"_This is what you wanted, right?" Alfred asked, lifting Arthur off the mattress again enough to get his shirt off, tossing it to the floor alongside everything else. "Me on top? Is this okay?"_

"_I... yes, yes, this is... fine," Arthur said faintly; he couldn't help but get the impression that Alfred seemed very eager to please him, appearing to double-check his every action against Arthur's reaction. It was a new experience to him, from both a sexual partner and from Alfred himself, who usually seemed so insular so as to not consider anyone else around him, not out of unkindness but rather obliviousness. The fact that he was being so attentive, so careful, sort of gave Arthur the sense that Alfred... didn't really know what he was doing._

_Alfred fidgeted with Arthur's belt buckle._

"_Pants off?" he asked, although he appeared to be talking more to himself, given that he was still wearing his own trousers._

"_Yes," Arthur prompted. "That might help things along, Alfred."_

"_Yeah, sure, sorry." Alfred worked at buckles and buttons and zips and soon had them both in their underwear, at which point there was another awkward bout of silence. "Uh, so," Alfred went on, looking at the wall for a moment, "you want to... I mean, underwear next, right?"_

"_This isn't quite "throes of passion", Alfred. You don't have to check everything with me."_

"_I'm sorry, I'm..." Alfred finally looked back at him – albeit briefly, quickly averting his blue eyes to the bedsheets. "...I'm kind of new at this."_

"_New?" Arthur repeated._

"_More like... brand new, actually." Alfred's eyes darted up to meet Arthur's again. "That's... okay, isn't it?"_

"_I..." Arthur was honestly a bit surprised but it did explain a few things; he reached up and pulled Alfred down towards him, cuddling him reassuringly for a moment. "Of course it's alright. Why would you think it wouldn't be?"_

"_Oh, I don't know," Alfred sighed. "I thought maybe you might have another moral complaint or something, you know, deflowering an innocent... or, well, you've been with all these seasoned lovers—"_

"_They weren't lovers. It meant nothing more than a signature does." Arthur kissed Alfred's forehead and smiled. "It's alright, I don't mind. I'm... well, I suppose I'm rather flattered, actually, Alfred."_

"_Are you surprised?"_

"_A little bit," Arthur admitted, "but only because you're damned attractive – and I mean that as a compliment but don't you dare let it go to your head."_

"_Well, gee, thanks, but it don't really matter what you look like if you're Isolationist. My only choices were Francis and Matt and no thankyou to both. 'Sides, __**you'd**__ have had kittens if I'd fucked Francis and burnt down my White House – again – if I went anywhere near Matt." _

"_I suppose I can't argue with that," Arthur sighed. "Things... things being as they are, however, would you rather I went on top?_

_Alfred shook his head._

"_I think I can manage. If you don't mind being my... well, test-run, I guess."_

_Arthur grinned dryly at him._

"_I think I can manage," he replied; he pressed his knee against Alfred's crotch, enjoying how it made him sort of pitch forward and arch his back like a cat stretching. "Whenever you're ready, then, love."_

_Alfred was very ready and very not; Arthur could feel his arousal pressing against his thigh, could feel the tense quiver beneath his skin, the tremble of excitement and nervousness alive in him, when they kissed again. He guided as best he could, patient throughout the fumble of underwear, the clumsy rifling for some sort of lubricant, the demonstration of preparation that left them both so embarrassed that they couldn't look at one another while Alfred did it. It wasn't particularly romantic, any of it, nothing like Alfred had perhaps pictured in his head or filmed in Hollywood – they were hardly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, doing this in this militarised mechanical way on a metal-framed barrack-bed by the light of a dull bedside lamp with them __**both**__ being brand new at this, really. _

_Alfred wasn't really ready for this – or, at least, this wasn't right, this wasn't as it should have been, but once he broke the silence and lifted his head and said (quietly, shyly, rather unlike him), "You know, it's pretty dumb, but I guess I always kind of hoped it would be you". _

"_Oh, don't say things like that," Arthur hissed, turning his face away when Alfred tried to kiss him. "I feel that I don't deserve you as it is."_

"_Because I'm so young and naïve and pure?" Alfred mocked. "You give me time, Artie – I'll be as wicked and cruel and destructive as you. Worse, even."_

_Alfred didn't last very long; his pace was frantic, his thrusts a bit short and clumsy, and he breathed hard and shallow. He had no idea how to savour it, to slow it so that they would both enjoy it, and even though he touched Arthur a lot, pawing blindly all over him, it was hardly sensual because he gripped too hard as though he was searching for something to cling to like an anchor. No matter which way Arthur moved or adjusted, it didn't seem to make any difference – it was just the same uncoordinated, unpleasant friction as Alfred slammed into him with a jarring rhythm. It would have been better if Arthur, who at least knew the mechanics of the thing, had topped – or if, at least, he had literally just gone on top and done the work while Alfred lay back—_

_But he didn't say anything. He couldn't. It was so awkward and uncomfortable and yet... it wasn't meaningless. Oh, yes, he'd had far better sex than this, Francis and Antonio (to name but two) knew what they were doing, certainly, rocking him to climaxes that left him unable to see straight for longer than was convenient, but it had always been so empty, so hollow and inane. When he had looked at either of them, Francis had leered back at him, grinning triumphantly, and Antonio often hadn't even been giving him his attention, staring vacantly at the ceiling or wall._

_It was wonderfully different with Alfred – Alfred, who had no idea what he was doing but who smiled at him when their gazes met, who whispered "I love you" in that tentative tone as though he wasn't sure if it was okay for him to say it._

_Alfred fell gracelessly onto the bed next to Arthur and lay staring up at the ceiling, panting heavily; he wasn't even trying to hide his breathlessness, his gasps great and greedy. Arthur, not particularly exerted by comparison, suddenly felt rather self-conscious, the awkwardness of the situation coming back in full force, and pulled the crumpled covers up over them both, shooting a sly glance at his bedraggled bed-mate._

_Alfred seemed to sense that Arthur was looking at him and turned his head, meeting his gaze. His glasses were still hanging on but they were skewed and slipping._

_Alfred smiled at him, looking very relieved._

"_Well, that was somethin', right?" He gave a whistle. "I mean, I know it wasn't great but it sure was—"_

"_Something," Arthur finished. "Yes, yes it was. You... you did fine, Alfred."_

_Alfred grinned; Arthur couldn't help but notice that, now the tender moment was over, Alfred had gone back to his obnoxious act of swaggering overconfidence as though he was a seasoned sex-machine soldier. It was rather typical and sort of... endearing._

"_Lord have mercy, I need a cigarette after that," Alfred said, rolling onto his side. "You know where my pants are?"_

_Arthur glanced over the side of the bed._

"_Your trousers are down here – along with mine. And every other stitch we were wearing."_

"_Great. You wanna hand me my smokes?"_

"_If you say please and if I can have one for my trouble, you lazy git."_

_Alfred rolled his eyes._

"_Artie, give a guy a break. You should feel proud that I'm too damned beat to get them myself." He clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "You've definitely still got some fight left in you, old man," he added, as though they'd had to go five times in order for them both to be satisfied._

"_I also have some manners; regardless, I'm going to assume that you mean that rather poor choice of words in a complimentary way," Arthur muttered; he leaned over the side of the bed and fished out Alfred's cigarettes and a small, cheap lighter from his uniform trousers, handing them to him. _

_Alfred put two in his mouth, lit them and handed one to Arthur; they both leaned against the headboard, sort of sitting up, and each acquainted themselves with their cigarettes briefly._

"_Gee whiz, I'm glad we resolved that – that sexual tension in meetings was killing me." Alfred gave another low whistle. "Boy, it sure does feel good to get things off your chest, right?"_

"_Mm." Arthur leaned his head back and closed his eyes, exhaling smoke through his nose as he sighed. "And on them."_

_Alfred gave a small snort of laughter, seeming to appreciate the dry wordplay, but otherwise there was a long moment of satisfied, sated, secure silence between them as they smoked. In the aftermath, the awkwardness had dissipated and Arthur actually felt quite content, all things considered. Sure, it hadn't been wonderful, but it had been... well, a change of pace, awful sex with someone who actually loved him—_

"_Hey, Arthur?" Alfred glanced at him as he spoke._

_Arthur opened his jade eyes again, looking at him lazily._

"_Yes?" Smoke laced itself between those three letters._

_Alfred smiled._

"_Thanks," he said softly. "Thanks for waiting for me."_

**[Always]**

"Alfred?" Arthur called to him as he shut the front door and shook out the excess water droplets clinging to his wet hair, listening for some sign of life as he unbutton his soaked, heavy coat and shrugged it off. "Alfred!"

No answer; there was no sound at all but the pattering of the rain against the dark windows. It had stopped raining at about two in the afternoon and stayed off until half past eight or so and thereafter it hadn't stopped. Arthur checked his wristwatch – it was twenty past ten now, too early for Alfred to be in bed, which meant he was probably not answering on purpose, either because he was thoroughly engrossed in something else or because he was sulking.

Arthur left his briefcase at the foot of the stairs and headed down the hall towards the living room; as he drew close to it, he thought that he could hear faint music coming from behind the door, fading in and out like a radio not tuned properly. He pushed open the door and stepped in, finding the culprit to be the wireless, which was apparently having trouble picking up transmission waves in this weather, the sound dipping up and down and occasionally crackling. It was some sort of swing music, probably an old 1940s recording – American, too, judging by the way it sounded.

Alfred was asleep on the sofa, his copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ open on his chest. He didn't look very comfortable and was probably going to wake up with an awful crick in his neck; Arthur went over to him and leaned over him, shaking his head fondly at him.

"Alfred." He shook him awake; Alfred jumped and bolted upright, almost slamming his forehead into Arthur's.

"What?" he burst out, looking around wildly; he looked at Arthur and exhaled deeply. "Oh, it's you. Jeez, you scared the life outta me!"

"I can see that," Arthur said. "I told you not to wait up for me, idiot."

"Who says I was waiting up for you?" Alfred pouted, closing his book and rubbing at his neck with a grimace.

"You make these things obvious, I'm afraid."

Alfred stuck his tongue out at him.

"Where the heck have you been, anyway?" he asked, adjusting his glasses so that he could see the grandfather clock's face. "I know you said you'd be late but I thought you meant, like, _seven_ or something."

"The meeting finished at half past six," Arthur sighed tiredly, flopping down onto the sofa next to Alfred, "but of course there was the mandatory meal afterwards and then a few drinks – it's difficult to get away without appearing dreadfully rude or simply unsociable."

"You _are_ kind of unsociable," Alfred pointed out, leaning in and resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. "So, hey, you're talking to me – letting me drape myself over you, even. This is a good sign! I don't want to risk saying "Did my super-awesome letter begging for your forgiveness work?" in case you think that I was trying to manipulate you into forgiving me but... did it work?"

"W-well," Arthur said lamely, "I can't deny that it was a good way of making me take notice of the fact that you're serious about your apology. The last thing that long I saw you write was a Declaration of War to Kiku."

"Of course I'm serious!" Alfred exclaimed, sounding a bit bewildered. "I hate when you're mad at me – I mean _really_ mad, because sort-of mad when you're just pissed off that I made fun of your pink sweater is pretty funny—"

"It's _maroon_, you colour-blind twit," Arthur interrupted snippily. "Anyway, stop distracting me with your ridiculous rambling. What I was _going_ to say is that... while your behaviour hurt me, Alfred, I admit that I wasn't entirely fair to you yesterday. I know you didn't mean anything by trying to get me to call you that silly name and I don't know _what_ you were thinking when it comes to the marriage proposal but..." Arthur sighed. "...Well, I'm sorry I shouted at you like that. I completely flew off the handle, I know, and there's really no excuse for it but... I hope that you're willing to accept my apology nonetheless."

"Of course I am!" Alfred chirped, throwing his arms around Arthur happily. "And you accept mine too, right?"

"I..." Arthur frowned at him, feeling that he really hadn't taught this boy anything at all. "...It doesn't work like that, Alfred – you don't trade apologies like—"

"Like coins I made out of wood and then painted silver to trade to Matt for beaver pelts," Alfred cut in airily, leaning back again. "Yeah, yeah, I get you. Okay, guess I'll just have to sweeten the deal." He started to unbuckle his belt. "You get a sneak-peek of the awesome prize you get for accepting my apology—"

"N-no thankyou, Alfred!" Arthur said quickly, grabbing Alfred's hands and stopping him. "That's quite alright. I don't need to see you... drawing your Wonder-Sword or whatever nonsense you said the other night."

Alfred rolled his eyes but let go of his belt.

"Super-Awesome Sword of Truth and Justice," he said flatly. "_Superman_-kinda-theme, you know? Still, I guess I should be flattered that you weren't paying attention – even though I bet you don't remember what I called yours."

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact," Arthur replied primly, "and if you _ever_ call it 'Excalibur' again, I will wring your neck."

Alfred merely grinned.

"I'm bored of that hero theme now, anyway," he said brightly. "I've decided to go with a space-themed approach instead. You want to see my jet-powered rocket or not, Artie?"

"_No thankyou_," Arthur ground out.

"Aww, but I've set a course for—"

"Yes, I can guess exactly where you've set a course for," Arthur snapped; he knew Alfred was teasing him and hoped that he wasn't blushing too much. "Are you going to take this seriously?

"I _am_ taking this seriously!" Alfred protested. "After all, my landing could be compromised!"

"Alfred, you're not even going to be cleared for take-off if you don't behave yourself." Arthur drew himself up haughtily. "Now then, _about_ your apology—"

"Arthur," Alfred sighed, sobering again, "I really don't know what else to do. I've thrown all my cards on the table. I'm sorry and if you still won't forgive me then I guess I'll just have to make myself comfortable in the guest bedroom."

"Or a hotel." Arthur couldn't help but smirk as he saw Alfred's eyes widen in a wounded fashion. "A _joke_, Alfred."

Alfred narrowed his eyes again suspiciously.

"You have the weirdest sense of humour, though," he muttered, "so I can never tell."

"Positively _twisted_, isn't it?"

"You're making fun of me."

"I am making fun of you."

"Well," Alfred reasoned at length, glancing up at the ceiling, "given that you're not calling for a taxi cab to take me to a hotel right now, I'm gonna hedge a bet that I'm forgiven enough to at least be allowed back into the bedroom."

"I never threw you _out_ of the bedroom," Arthur pointed out. "I never banished you to the guest room, Alfred – that was entirely your own doing."

"Yeah, but you'd have been all moody and sulky and totally mean if I'd gotten into the bed with you, let's face it."

"It's likely, yes," Arthur concurred, "although there's no need to make me sound quite so disagreeable, you know."

"Well, you _were_ pretty mean to me last night!" Alfred said intensely. "And yesterday morning, too! It's like you were on some crazy rampage – like an ogre or a dragon or something!"

"Oh, I know, poppet," Arthur teased, taking hold of Alfred's chin. "What's to be done with this awful, appalling, absolutely abhorrent Arthur Kirkland – who spits out the bones of lonely travellers and steals away small children by the cloak of night? Certainly it will take a hero of great strength and bravery to slay him, hmmm?"

Alfred scowled.

"Are you done?"

"Quite," Arthur said, kissing Alfred on the forehead, "and do try not to exaggerate _quite_ so much, my poor tragic hero."

"Huh," Alfred muttered, "I'm sorry I opened my mouth."

Arthur gave a snort as he settled back again.

"I expect that won't last long."

"_Still_," Alfred drawled, leaning on Arthur again as though to better illustrate his point, "you're not being all moody and sulky and totally mean now, _so_... I'm forgiven, right?"

"Oh, I suppose so," Arthur sighed, "but only because you asked _so nicely_."

"You said you were done."

"I'm done now, I promise."

"Okay." Alfred wriggled a bit on the sofa, settling more comfortably against Arthur. "You'll probably be mad at me for something else by this time tomorrow anyway."

"Probably."

There was a long moment of silence between them. Arthur watched the ornate black minute hand on the grandfather clock crawl forward a centimetre or so; he was exhausted and rather wished he was in bed without the bother of going. Alfred seemed to express this same sentiment, yawning and squirming again to make a better pillow of Arthur's shoulder.

"You sound tired," Arthur said, still looking at the clock.

"Zonked," Alfred muttered. "Let's sleep here."

"Let's not." Arthur pushed him off and got up with a bit of effort. "Come along, let's go to bed. I'm shattered too."

Alfred grumbled loudly but hauled himself up; Arthur took him by the hand as though he was a little boy who couldn't be trusted to not just fall asleep on the stairs and led him out of the living room and down the hall, retrieving his briefcase at the bottom of the stairs. Alfred followed him like a zombie all the way up the staircase and along the landing, only breaking free when they got to the bedroom – he dived face-first onto the bed and sprawled out.

"Oh, bed, my one true love!" he moaned, rolling over onto his back. He opened his eyes to glance at Arthur. "I mean, seriously, that one in the guest bedroom is like—"

"Like most of the springs are broken," Arthur finished blandly, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Gilbert's doing, jumping on the thing, don't ask why – in fact, don't even ask why he was _here_, I don't really know. Ludwig came to fetch him and he and I weren't really on very good terms at the time – it was the late 1930s – and so there wasn't much discussion about it. Come to think of it, I'm certain I was drunk anyway, so—"

"Wait, you've had a guest bed with broken springs for _twenty years_?"

"I keep forgetting about it," Arthur said dismissively, unknotting his tie to put it back on the rack. "You're the only visitor I get – that I allow to stay, at any rate – and you always sleep in here with me so... well, that's the first complaint I've _had_ in twenty years. To be honest, I didn't even notice he'd broken the thing until 1947."

"Wow, you're even more isolationist than I was," Alfred said, "and I was quite literally Isolationist – with a capital 'i' and all."

"I think "unpopular" is the word _I_ would use," Arthur muttered, hearing Alfred rustling around behind him, probably looking for something.

"Aww, Artie, _I_ like you."

"I should bloody well hope so," Arthur pointed out, "given that you asked..." He trailed off. "Ah, well, never... never mind..."

"Given that I asked you to marry me."

Arthur turned to him; Alfred was lying on his side and the ring in question, still nestled in its velvet box, was in his hand, being examined from every angle.

"Yes, given that you asked... _that_," Arthur agreed.

"You said no because you were angry, didn't you?" Alfred asked in a low voice.

Arthur looked away.

"Alfred," he said, "if you were to ask me again right now, even though I'm not angry anymore, I would still say no."

Alfred looked up at him from the ring.

"Why?"

"Well..." Arthur came to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, looking down at the carpet. "There are... quite a few reasons, to be honest. Now just... just isn't a good time to promise you something like that, I mean, I'm still in financial ruin from the war, still trying to pull myself back together—"

"We don't have to have a big lavish wedding if you're worried about money," Alfred cut in earnestly. "It can be quiet and small if you'd rather, just you and me and... well, a few witnesses, maybe Mattie and... ugh, well, I guess we'd have to invite Francis or he'd just turn up clinging to Matt anyway—"

"Alfred, you're not listening," Arthur sighed. "I know it's not money, a wedding doesn't have to cost even ten quid if you don't want it to, it's just... well, it's me. I can't rely on you, I can't _let_ myself rely on you by marrying into your economic boom... Look, a lot of it is just pride and I know it's silly but you have to understand that I can't let go of it that easily. I used to be an Empire and I'm not anymore and I... I don't know, I suppose I'd feel that if I was to marry you now, with both of us as we are, it would be as though I was doing to it to claim back some of my glory, marrying into your status as world power..."

"Right before I leave you for someone else, right?" Alfred finished dryly.

"Don't be like that," Arthur begged. "I know it's all ridiculous – or, at least, it seems that way to you. To be honest, I didn't realise I had insecurity issues like this either but the fact is that... well, I love you, Alfred, and I've never loved anyone else, at least not like this, and... you make me doubt myself as no-one else ever has. I've always felt, really, that I don't deserve you, not after some of the things I've done in the past—"

"Exactly how sweet and innocent do you think _I_ am?" Alfred interrupted, sitting up. "Jeez, don't tell me you've forgotten that thing with Kiku already, Arthur."

Arthur shook his head.

"But that wasn't out of greed, it wasn't because of status or wealth. I'm not saying it was a good thing to do but it was... _different_. You got to be world power because of the vacuum the Second World War left – not because you stole and crushed and subjugated as I did."

Alfred shook his head desperately.

"What does that matter?" he asked. "I love you anyway – for who you are now. If you won't judge me for 1945 then I won't judge you for your Empire."

"Who I am now." Arthur smiled sadly at Alfred. "You know, when I was an Empire, someone like who I am now would never have held _my_ interest. I'd have trampled someone as weak as me."

"Yeah, I know," Alfred replied quietly. "I know for a fact that _I_ never held your interest for very long. Still, you can't think that _I'm_ going to do that."

"_I_ would have. Lucky you were Isolationist, eh?"

"Artie, I'm not like how you were back then," Alfred said, pulling Arthur into an embrace. "And neither are you."

"I know," Arthur whispered, putting his arms around Alfred's back.

"So that's a yes?" Alfred asked hopefully.

"It's still a no." Arthur couldn't help but smile, hiding it against Alfred's shoulder. "But I know persistence is part of your job description as a hero, so... don't give up on me, Alfred. It won't necessarily be a no forever."

Alfred leaned back again, grinning.

"I'll always hold out hope," he said, "and carry it aloft like Lady Liberty."

"Ugh, go to bed." Arthur pushed him away but Alfred grabbed his wrist.

"Gimme some sugar first, baby," he said, puckering up in an exaggerated fashion.

"Don't be such a prick." Arthur managed to wriggle free, smirking. "I swear you deliberately try to make me throw up sometimes."

Alfred flopped across the bed again like a dying swan, tossing the ring box back into the open bedside drawer.

"Ah, I can't do anything right by you, you grouch," he muttered.

"And don't you forget it," Arthur agreed, picking up his briefcase. "Go on, get into bed and go to sleep. I'll be back in a minute."

He left the bedroom and took his briefcase back to the study, leaving it on the desk; the letter was still tucked safely inside it, having been moved to a compartment all of its own. He couldn't help tidying his desk a little bit, neatly stacking a few sheets of paper and putting a pen back into the drawer, before heading back to the bedroom to finish undressing.

Alfred was in bed by the time he got back, his clothes thrown haphazardly to the floor. His glasses were off and his eyes were closed, although he clearly wasn't quite asleep yet for he seemed to hear Arthur coming back into the room, addressing him without opening his eyes:

"'S'okay, though," he murmured sleepily, "since you... love me anyway, Artie."

Arthur didn't answer at first, finishing hanging up his suit in silence. By the time he came to the bed and pulled on his green pyjamas, Alfred had fallen asleep properly, his chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of sedation and a sweet, sleepy smile on his face.

"Always, Alfie," Arthur admitted.

* * *

...Which has to be the happiest ending I've written in a long time.

Lots of historical notes for such a long chapter!

**Glenn Miller:** Miller, who had had a successful orchestra in the 1930s, was forty when the United States entered WWII in 1941 and was considered too old to enlist as a soldier. Instead he joined the US Air Force voluntarily and created a new swing band named the Army Air Force Band. Miller and his new "recruits" were responsible for the morale of Allied troops and were "posted" to the United Kingdom, playing for groups of Allied soldiers (mostly American, British, French and Canadian, although sometimes Australian, New Zealander and other squads got to see Miller too) all over the country. Miller's private plane disappeared over the English Channel in 1944 and his body has never been found to this day.

**WAACs and WRNS/Wrens:** All-female army-affiliated groups active during WWII – members were often named singularly after the acronym. WAAC, an American organisation, stood for Women's Army Auxiliary Corps; the British counterpart, WRNS, stood for Women's Royal Navy Service and the girls serving in it were nicknamed Wrens. My next-door-neighbour, who is eighty-odd now, was a Wren during the war. ^^

**Garrison cap:** One of those little boat-shaped hats lower-down soldiers wear, most commonly in the American, British, French and Italian armies. Alfred is shown wearing one once, presumably when in full uniform, in an episode of _Hetalia_ while engaged in "psychological warfare" involving 25cm condoms with Russia (Lt Aldo Raine also wears one in _Inglourious Basterds_). They are alternatively named 'Overseas hats'.

**Officer's belt:** Sometimes named a 'Sam Browne belt' after its inventor, this is the mostly-for-decorative-purposes strap that Arthur wears on his uniform across his chest. They were removed from the British uniform when it was discovered that the only thing they were actually useful for was allowing enemy soldiers to strangle the wearer with them. DX

**Jitterbug:** A popular American dance sensation that spread beyond the United States during the war, mostly to countries where American troops were stationed – for obvious reasons. It was particularly popular in the UK and Australia.

**Bing Crosby:** Another hugely-popular star of the 1930s and 1940s, famous for singing and acting. He sang 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas' but sang several songs written about the war, too. XD

"**You can always count on Americans to do the right thing – after they've tried everything else": **An actual quote from Winston Churchill. What a charmer (he loved them really, though).

"**Star-crossed lovers":** A reference to the line "A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life" from the Prologue of _Romeo and Juliet_.

**Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers: **Yet more 1940s stars, Astaire and Rogers were a dance act that appeared in ten films together from the early 1930s to the early 1950s. They were known for their on-screen chemistry and the majority of their dances were very romantic (and very very very good).

**Excalibur:** I would honestly be stunned if someone didn't know this but... it's the name of King Arthur's legendary sword. LOL INNUENDO XD

**Quid:** British slang for a pound, still in use today – it's the equivalent of calling a dollar a 'buck'.

I _believe_ that is everything! Sorry, I don't mean to beat you over the head with all this history/terminology, but I don't want people to be confused either and having to hit up Wikipedia at the end of every chapter. A story is no fun if it sets you homework, right?

SO... this was the last chapter of _A is For_, **but**... there is going to be one more final farewell – an epilogue, of sorts, just to round things off perfectly. It's short and partway written – I'd have posted it with this chapter instead of dragging it out but it's not finished yet so... you have to wait. Not too long, though – it probably won't take a week to get it done given that it won't have three segments like all the actual chapters so look out for it sometime in the next few days or so!

...See how good I am to you all? XD

I hope you enjoyed the last actual chapter of _A is For_ in all its awkward-sex and awkward-making-up glory! Bid a fond but firm farewell to the Forties and Fifties, for the finale flashes forward to a future we're all a little more familiar with!

RobinRocks xXx

P.S: Beat eleven 'f's!


	9. Aftermath: Amaranthine

Yeah, so, look at that – it's Friday. Haha. I thought this wouldn't take as long but, as usual with me, this got _waaaay_ longer than it was originally supposed to be. At 7000-odd words it's actually longer than a few of the actual chapters. XD

This Epilogue – if it can even be called that at this length – takes place in **2007** and then backs up again to **1993**, both set in hotel rooms. I picked 2007 for two reasons. One: I wanted it to be very modern but before the recession/global financial crisis because I didn't want to have to write about that on top of everything else in here; and Two: I liked 2007. With the one exception of that being the year my amazingly-ancient-at-the-time-of-her-demise dog died, I had a lot of fun that year. ^^ The reason for 1993 will become obvious.

The first segment of this chapter continues from Arthur's perspective – for the second (and third very small) segment(s), we return finally to Alfred.

Thanks to: **DMFAZINA, MashednotHashed, shake-it-buddy, watchulla, Genki-angel-chan, Croutonic Sarcasm, ilfreitas, Britannia Angel-American Hero, Alphan, Icicle Rhythm, Author and Co, Kunoichi-Shea, Kaimi-Flames, Lady Sango the taijiya, kana-dragongirl, Sylence, OrangeSpiral, LithiumKiss, Veldargone, Plate Captain, Aria DC al Fine, TTRaven4Ever, egoXlockheart, TheWonderBunny, Tamer Lorika, Axxi, akira-chan1, Invader Mizzy, Cheese-kun, hexazebra, cax, OneWithManyNames, Xeniaph, nocco, Narroch **(how bleeding _kind_ of you to comment!)**, ehhfunny, xMelitheKonekox **and **Anime18Emo**!

And now... this is it. The _final_ finale. Savour it! Oh, and have some Elvis – 1954 was too early for him (he actually recorded his first few songs in 1954 but he didn't become a star until 1956) and that's the only reason he was never mentioned throughout the rest of this fic. I love me some Elvis.

A is For: Aftermath

'Let's walk up to the preacher and let us say "I do";

Then you'll know you'll have me

And I'll know that I'll have you'

– Elvis Presley,_ Don't Be Cruel_

**[Amaranthine]**

Of course Alfred would leave him with the cases.

Arthur spotted him across the hotel lobby as he all but fell out of the revolving glass doors with both cases practically landing on top of him in his wake; he righted himself with an angry hiss, shook the thin layer of snow from his gold hair and stalked across the huge lobby towards the reception desk. It was a beautiful hotel right in downtown New York City, all high carved ceilings and polished marble floors and sparkling chandeliers – but right now the only thing that had Arthur's attention was Alfred's back as the moron leaned over the reception counter. Arthur could hear him from here, contesting something about the name the room was booked under.

"No, no," he was saying, sounding frustrated. "Kirkland-Jones – it's not booked under two names, it's all one name. Double-barrel, right? Like Sarah Michelle Gellar!"

The receptionist looked at Alfred blankly.

"You know, from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_?" Alfred pressed. "It was on in the 90s?"

"Sarah Michelle Gellar is not a double-barrel name, Alfred," Arthur corrected as he came to his side and finally dropped the cases. "Edgar Allan Poe would be... well, still not perfect – but a better example."

"Artie!" Alfred grabbed him, swept him in close and gave him a quick kiss to the cheek before turning pointedly back to the receptionist. "Look, he's Kirkland, I'm Jones – and together we're Kirkland-Jones! Like Batman and Robin only more awesome!"

"Right," the receptionist said uneasily; she went back to her computer and started to type.

"Three things, Alfred," Arthur sighed. "One, don't leave me to try to find out the fare from some immigrant driver who doesn't speak a word of English and haul the cases out of the taxi and drag the things through those infernal revolving doors all by myself; two, stop with the kissing-in-public thing, you know I don't like it; and three, if you would just book under one name instead of the "official" joint name, this wouldn't keep happening to us every time we try to check into a hotel!"

"Aww, but we're married now, baby," Alfred pouted, flashing his ring as though for use as a visual aide – and as though he presumed that answer to be a satisfactory one to all three of Arthur's complaints.

"_Four_ things," Arthur bit out. "Stop calling me "baby', for goodness' sake. This isn't the 1950s. Or the 1960s. I'd always rather hoped you'd grow out of it, to be perfectly honest. _And_, furthermore, us being married isn't much of a novelty anymore, Alfred, really it isn't – 1993, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Alfred said wistfully. "Can't believe it only took me forty years of pestering you to get you to say yes—"

"Thirty-nine, actually—"

"Your keys." The receptionist, who was now looking at the pair of them very oddly, pushed their key cards towards them across the desk. "You're in Room 431. Have a wonderful stay."

"Thankyou." Arthur grabbed both keys with a curt nod and ushered Alfred away from the desk, dragging the cases after them. "Come on, let's get to the room before you say something to _really_ land us in it."

"Hey," Alfred replied defensively, "_you're_ the one cracking out the exact dates. Still, don't know why she was looking at _you_ with such surprise – I mean, me, yeah, I don't even look thirty so of course it's weird for me to say it took me forty years to browbeat you into accepting—"

"Alfred," Arthur hummed warningly as they went to the glass lift at the back of the lobby.

"But you, jeez, it's hardly a stretch—"

"_Alfred_."

"Still," Alfred said with a smirk, not perturbed in the slightest, "I've always reckoned Clinton had something to do with you coming to your senses. I mean, 1993 – that's the year he got in and the man just completely _radiated_—"

"Yes, _alright_, Alfred – that's enough, please."

Alfred sulked as the lift opened and they stepped in.

"Really?" he sighed as he jabbed the button for their floor. "Shame – I could totally go for some Clinton-era-style international relations right now."

"So that's _not_ just the Empire State Building in your pocket, hmm?" Arthur teased.

Alfred apparently had to check before grinning again and sticking out his tongue.

"Go to Hell, Artie."

"I'm already there," Arthur sighed. "I've heard they're calling it "New York" these days."

"You wound me," Alfred exclaimed, exaggeratedly grabbing at his heart.

"Not nearly enough," Arthur countered as the lift shuddered to a halt. "You're still standing."

They argued all the way down the hall and were still bickering as Arthur wrestled three times with the card key in the magnetic lock before Alfred swiped it through with one neat easy motion and let the door go sailing open; Arthur snatched it off him and went into the room ahead more-or-less with his nose in the air, leaving Alfred with the cases – which served the idiot right, he felt. Alfred didn't seem terribly put-upon, bringing the cases in and kicking the door shut with his heel as Arthur glanced around, assessing the room.

It was massive, of course – hotels in this part of the Big Apple didn't do things by halves, the king-sized bed decked out in crimson and scattered with something like a dozen pillows of red and gold. There was a large window with a spectacular view of the city, dressed either side with dark velvet curtains pulled back with gold braiding and then further ruffles of near-translucent scarlet chiffon trailing almost to the floor; the mirror at the dresser was elaborate with a lavishly-detailed frame, the cream carpet was thick and soft and warm, the light was practically a chandelier, the counter was laden with all sorts of freebies and a state-of-the-art coffeemaker and everything in the bathroom was marble – even the sink.

"Is it to your liking, Your Highness?" Alfred asked sarcastically as he passed him, shrugging out of his suit jacket and whipping off his tie and tossing both onto the bed.

Arthur snorted.

"It'll do, I suppose." He narrowed his eyes at Alfred. "You know, when you were a child, you used to call me "Your Highness" and it wasn't in that smart-aleck tone."

"That's because you told me you were really _King_ Arthur," Alfred pointed out, going to the window. "What an awful person you are, Artie, lying to an impressionable little kid like that."

"It was the only way to get any respect out of you even back then," Arthur muttered. "Now, of course, it's an utter lost cause." He picked up Alfred's jacket. "And don't throw your clothes around like that, for goodness' sake, I've told you and told you to hang them up so that they don't get ruined – you know these new suits are made of cheaper materials and they really don't last very long if you don't look after them..."

Arthur trailed off – Alfred wasn't interrupting him, making fun of him for fussing about proper hanging-up-your-suit etiquette or mimicking him. _That_ meant that something else had his attention.

"Alfred?" Arthur looked up.

"Hmm?" Alfred replied absently; he was over at the hotel room window, leaning on the sill and looking out.

Oh.

Arthur dropped the jacket back onto the bed and came around it to Alfred's side, joining him at the window.

"We've been to this hotel before, remember?" Alfred said, not looking at him. "1995, I think – or maybe it was 1996. We were only here for a night but I remember looking out the window just like this and... they were right there." He pointed vaguely to a noticeable gap in the skyline. "It was a great view. I wanted to show you but I forgot – it didn't seem like a big deal, though. They just used to be part of the scenery then and I thought... well, there would be another time, they'd just be there forever so it didn't matter."

"I remember." Arthur lifted Alfred's arm and went underneath it, nudging up close to him. "I saw them, Alfred. With a view like that, I couldn't have missed them – or _anything_. It was like a painting."

Alfred pulled him close.

"And what did you think?"

"I thought it was beautiful." Arthur looked out at the scene below him – early-afternoon New York City awash with the mid-December Christmas rush, silver snow spiralling to the street with the same idleness as it had expressed as it began when they had gotten into their taxi from the airport. From up here, the fifteenth floor of a twenty-one storey high-rise hotel, the bright shoppers bustling about with their bags were little more than tiny flecks of colour on the white pavements, weaving in and out of the firefly-yellow taxi cabs as they stopped and started and screeched down the street – but the sight of the skyline was perfect, the Chrysler Building and Empire State Building glinting in the cold winter light as though bedecked with Christmas illuminations like the trees in Central Park. "And it still is," he added gently.

Alfred was quiet for a moment.

"Yeah," he agreed at length. "Yeah, it is. I'm proud of it."

He turned towards Arthur and kissed him; Arthur recognised it for what it was, gentle and grateful and sort of sad, and leaned into it, reaching up to cup Alfred's face as he felt Alfred's arms go around his back to hold him tight. It lasted for a long moment as though Alfred was trying to lose himself in it, to forget for an instant the pain this city of his had endured and instead take comfort from the mouth that first named it "New York".

"Good thing you wrestled it off that Dutch guy," Alfred finished breathlessly as he leaned back.

"Yes," Arthur replied. "I suppose it was."

Alfred smiled at him, gave him another little kiss on the tip of his nose and then let go of him, moving away from the window and throwing himself face-first across the huge bed, burrowing into the mound of gold-embroidered cushions at the head of it.

"Ah, this is the life!" he trilled, rolling over and sinking further still into the pile of cushions. "_I_ feel like a king, at least!"

Alfred had firmly fixed his impenetrably-cheerful façade back on but he always grieved a little every time he came to New York and Arthur supposed that it was good for him to be able to switch between both. It seemed to him to be acceptance on Alfred's part, that he needed only a few moments to reacquaint himself with the tragedy before feeling the flow of the city in his veins again. Just as with the Blitz, there had been no subjugation of spirit – it was not as though it had never happened but rather that life moved around that empty space in the skyline as though nothing about the pace of that life had changed even in their absence. Arthur understood that, having once watched London being bombed to the ground; making a religion of mourning the loss didn't lend itself to moving on and remembering the past and dwelling on it were two very different things.

Besides, Alfred himself had once said something to him that had always stuck, perhaps because he had honestly been surprised by the wisdom in the words:_ There is no greater testament to your strength than your scars._

Well, that hole in the skyline out there – the one that hadn't been there in 1995 – was a huge scar and the fact that Alfred could bob up from the nest he'd made for himself on the bed and smile proved that he was strong.

"Hey," Alfred said, smirking mischievously at him, "you wanna christen the sheets?"

Ugh. Arthur rolled his eyes. He might have known that Alfred's sweet, pensive mood would last all of three seconds.

"As delightful as that sounds," he replied curtly, "I will have to pass. We don't have time – it's almost two o' clock and we both need to shower and change and have something to eat before we go down to the pre-conference meeting Ludwig has organised for this evening—"

"Oh, that's plenty of time!" Alfred whined. "Come on, Artie! Just a quickie – that plane ride did a number on my back and I really feel like wrestling with you in all those weird positions you seem to end up in would help!"

Arthur kneaded at his forehead.

"Let me put this another way," he said with an over-exaggerated sigh. "Go to Hell, Alfred."

Alfred merely laughed, flopping back to the bed.

"I'm already there," he sighed. "I've heard they're calling it "stupid World Conference meeting thingy in fancy hotel that I have to attend instead of sitting at home in my underwear watching _The Simpsons_ reruns" these days."

"Oh?" Arthur started to unknot his tie. "And not "unfair, stingy, totally mean love-of-your-life who won't do you the tiny favour of letting you shag him so you can get the kinks out of your back"?"

Alfred snorted and put his arms behind his head.

"That goes without saying."

"Ah, of course."

Alfred rolled over again and buried his face in the pillows.

"Life's so _unfair_," he moaned, his voice muffled by red silk and gold-thread embroidered roses and feathers sixteen inches high.

Arthur gave a sigh as he went to the wardrobe to begin hanging up his suit; Alfred lay groaning on the bed as though he was dying, mumbling about there not being a Dunkin' Donuts near the hotel and everyone _knew_ that America ran on Dunkin' because it was like the slogan and stuff and they should have picked a hotel in a better location to accommodate his needs and he was going to miss the new episode of _Family Guy_ because of the meeting and Arthur was the meanest meanie that had ever lived and God life just sucked so freaking hard.

"Always, Alfred," Arthur agreed.

He couldn't help but smile.

—

"Jeez," Alfred sighed as he shut the door behind them, "is this gonna be like that time where you didn't speak to Kiku for six months because he gave us love eggs as a wedding present?"

Arthur seemed to debate ignoring him for a moment before he finally deigned to speak to him:

"To be perfectly honest, I am _still_ rather annoyed at Kiku for that," he replied curtly. "All awkwardness aside, it seems to imply that the marriage might well be on the rocks already and is in need of assistance."

"Oh, don't lie!" Alfred burst out. "You liked those damn things more than I did! Remember you—"

"Don't spout such utter bollocks."

"Or that time I—"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Or when we—"

"_Enough_, Alfred!" Arthur glared at him, midway through carefully unknotting his burgundy tie. "Besides, this isn't about Kiku – this is about _you_ still having not learned that there is a time and place for saying certain things."

"Oh, hell, not your acceptable-behaviour-in-polite-company bullcrap again," Alfred moaned, throwing himself across the bed without bothering to take off anything of his neat blue suit that Arthur _still_ hadn't been satisfied with and had actually made him take off again so that he could _iron_ it before they went down to dinner prior to the meeting. "I mean, _first_ of all it's totally hypocritical since you've gotten us kicked out of more places than I can even keep track of—"

(Which, come to think of it, was weird given that Arthur was so obsessed with presentability that he couldn't stand to be seen in Alfred's company if he had a single crease in his suit—)

"This and that are not the same thing so please don't compare them," Arthur snapped, taking off his jacket. "For one thing, you, my friend, are perfectly sober."

"And _you_, my friend, are splitting hairs," Alfred retorted.

(Okay, so maybe it wasn't so weird – Arthur only tended to get them kicked out of places when he was so drunk he couldn't even say his own name anymore and by that point he didn't give two hoots about whose suit was creased where—)

"Alfred." Arthur appeared to be trying to be patient. "Listen to me. Ludwig organised a Getting-To-Know-You exercise to begin the pre-meeting this evening because, let's face it, a lot of us don't really interact with or know much about each other. I agree – it's a good idea. There was a Before section prior to us being put into random pairs. The fact that I ended up getting put with Antonio is neither here nor there – nor is the fact that, in the Before section, _you_ got _me_. _However_... when asked what you know about me just off the top of your head, yelling "He's great in the sack!" at the top of your voice is _not_ an acceptable answer. While we're at it, beginning to detail exactly what things get your seal of approval when Francis asks you to elaborate is _also_ not acceptable – nor is _repeating_ yourself so that Gilbert can take notes for blackmail purposes. Frankly, if _I_ hadn't hit you, I think Ludwig might have done something rather more drastic."

"Well, I figured you wouldn't mind since everyone _knows_," Alfred huffed, picking at a loose gold thread on one of the cushions. "We're married, for Chrissakes – if _I_ don't know then who does?" He paused, suddenly remembering – somewhat unpleasantly – that Arthur had been around a lot longer than he had. "No, wait, don't answer that—"

"_Elizaveta_ knows because you lied and said the corridor was _empty—_"

"I didn't _lie_! I didn't know she was lurking round the corner watching us like a total creeper!"

"Well, that's it – I am _never_ kissing you in public ever again." Arthur made a very final slicing motion in the air with his hands. "See, this is why I don't like to do it, nobody around here can mind their own bleeding business when I kiss my own partner-lover-husband... _thing_... whatever you are, anyway."

"It was really more like making out—" Alfred started helpfully.

"I said that's _it_. I'm going to walk ten feet away from you and pretend I don't even know you."

"So I'll just talk louder." Alfred arched an eyebrow. "And hope you don't scream for help when I jump you."

"I will. Very loudly."

Alfred snorted.

"No-one will come," he said carelessly. "Nobody likes you, Artie, remember? Except me – and anyway, everyone _knows_, like I said. So those things coupled together basically just spell your doom at my hands."

"And how do _you_ know that nobody likes me?" Arthur asked scathingly.

"Hey, _you're_ the one always whining to me that no-one ever votes for your entry in that weird European singing contest you guys hold every year!"

"Oh, the Eurovision Song Contest." Arthur shrugged. "Well, that's a bloody fix anyway..."

"Just because you haven't won for like two decades!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, having apparently given up arguing his European popularity once the topic turned to the ESC, and went to the room's sideboard, beginning to rifle through the freebies presumably in search of a teabag. He switched the coffeemaker on, muttering about there never being a kettle in these infernal American hotel rooms no matter how expensive they were; Alfred lay and watched him in amusement from the bed. He was still comfortably full from dinner but, when he saw Arthur absently opening one of the little complimentary (very fancy) packets of biscuits, he sat bolt upright to demand one merely out of principle.

Arthur scowled at him, apparently not in a sharing mood.

"Don't be such a pig," he said, breaking off half of his real-root-ginger-and-Demerara-sugar gingersnap between his teeth as he spoke. "You absolutely stuffed yourself at dinner."

"So did you!"

"No, I didn't – if I had, I wouldn't be hungry now, would I?"

Alfred merely smirked at him.

"I know you think I didn't see you loosen your belt a notch," he said sweetly, "but I totally did so stop being so mean and give me a cookie."

Arthur hated being called on things and his displeasure was evident in the way his cheeks flushed with a little colour; but he threw Alfred one of the gingersnaps nonetheless, muttering to himself again, this time about not having to take that from a gluttonous brat who had had to loosen _his_ belt _three_ notches _and_ undo the button on his fly.

"You know what would go great with this?" Alfred said, nibbling at his gingersnap appreciatively.

"I am not making you a cup of coffee," Arthur replied flatly.

"Naw," Alfred sighed. "Well, a cup of coffee _would_ go great with this but that's not what I was thinking."

"You weren't thinking wild hotel-room sex, were you?"

"...That's a no?"

"That's a no."

"How come?" Alfred whined. "The meeting's done, it's only nine-ish—"

"Elizaveta is on this floor. I saw her clamped onto Roderich's arm outside their room as he was trying to get it open when I went to get some ice earlier. It wouldn't surprise me if she's lurking outside right now—"

"Tch, she's not _that_ interested in us," Alfred said.

"Oh yes she is," Arthur replied. "She watched me come out of our room in what might only be described as a predatory manner. Besides, this area is a triple-score-zone – Antonio and Lovino are right next door that way and Feliks and Toris are two rooms down the other way. I utterly _guarantee_ you that she's around here somewhere."

"So that's it for the whole three-day conference?" Alfred moodily jammed the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and crunched it up. "_Lame_."

"Alfred, you fell _asleep_ the last time we did it," Arthur pointed out with a scowl, fussing over his badly-made tea.

"I was tired!" Alfred said defensively. "It wasn't an insult or anything!"

"You were tired because you stayed up the entire previous night playing that ridiculous _Halo_ thing on that infernal game contraption of yours."

"It was _Halo 2_ on the Xbox360, Artie."

"Whatever," Arthur bit out. "You're just lucky you didn't offend me too much."

"Too much? You went on about it all the next day and you're going on about it now, too!" Alfred propped up a few of the cushions against the headboard and sat up more comfortably, watching Arthur put the finishing touches to his tea-that-would-undoubtedly-taste-like-coffee-anyway. "Still, it's not as bad as that time back in the late Fifties when I called Elvis' name instead and you didn't speak to me for like a week."

"Well," Arthur sighed, eying his tea warily, "I know I hardly match up to Elvis Presley in the looks department but you really didn't have to rub it in, you know."

"I wasn't imagining you were him, honest," Alfred said earnestly. "It was because I'd watched that live show he did on the TV that day and I was thinking about it. All the girls in the crowd used to scream his name like that and it was difficult not to get caught up in it!"

"I know, I know, you've explained this to me many, many times." Arthur glanced at him. "_Do_ you want me to make you some coffee?"

Alfred shook his head and patted the bed next to him.

"Nah," he said. "Just come over here and at least give me a cuddle, babe. A nice, quiet, loving one that even Elizaveta can't detect through the door with her magical gaydar powers."

Arthur rolled his jade eyes again but picked up his cup and brought it over to the bed, kicking off his shoes and carefully climbing aboard to settle next to Alfred.

"Babe, baby, babycakes," he sighed. "I used to rock you to sleep when you were so small you could curl up in my lap. It just makes me feel older still when you call me things like that, you know."

"You _are_ old," Alfred reminded him. "And that's how I like you. Old stuff is awesome – Glenn Miller, right? That's considered ancient history now, kids just want to listen to R'n'B and flash-in-the-pan pop bands and_ High School Musical_ but _I_ think Glenn Miller is still pretty damn cool – and he'll always have a special place in my heart. His music was the soundtrack to me finally getting the guts to tell you I loved you."

"I'm quite a bit older than Glenn Miller, all the same," Arthur pointed out.

"Then you're even cooler." Alfred kissed him on the cheek. "Okay, baby?"

Arthur sighed at him but smiled faintly.

"Thankyou, Alfred," he said; he sipped at his tea and then shuddered.

"Jeez, it's gotta be bad if _you_ can't drink it," Alfred commented. "Your tastebuds left you when the Vikings did!"

"Shut up," Arthur replied grouchily, putting the cup down rather heavily on the polished oak nightstand to his left. "It's because it tastes like coffee, idiot."

"You want me to call room service and get them to bring you some hot water so you can make more?"

"Oh, it's alright," Arthur muttered, leaning on Alfred. "I'll survive until tomorrow morning. I'm going to go to sleep soon, anyway – plane journeys never do my body clock any favours."

"But this is NYC!" Alfred protested. "The city that never sleeps! The night is young, Artie!"

"The night may be young but I, as we have just discussed, am most certainly not. The fact is that I _remember_ the Vikings."

"We could still catch a Broadway show. I'm pretty sure _The Lion King_ is around here somewhere... Hey, remember we went to the premiere of that?"

"You always take me to the premiere of every Disney animated film, Alfred," Arthur sighed. "Of course I remember – they're catalogued by year in my memory."

"That's how you remember stuff?" Alfred asked, taking Arthur's left hand and playing with it.

"Mm, well, I have to have some method of organisation – I have a lot to remember these days, you know. I'm starting to feel like I've been around forever."

"But life's only been good the past four hundred years or so, right?"

"Of course. I don't know how I ever lived without you, Alfred – you brighten my life in every way, bringing sunshine and rainbows and a Starbucks on every street."

"You're welcome." Alfred ran his thumb over Arthur's wedding ring – it was a traditional plain gold band, the exact match to the one on his own left hand. "Is our wedding in your little mind-catalogue?"

"Of course it is."

"Tell me about it," Alfred said. "Tell me how you remember it."

"Well..." Arthur looked at his ring himself for a moment. "It was the October of 1993. We got married in Jamestown, Virginia, in one of the old churches. You wanted me to wear a white suit and I wouldn't and we had a fight about it; in the end we both wore completely normal suits, like the one you're creasing now by lolling about on the bed in it, although you said that if it didn't matter _what_ we wore, you wanted to wear your Michael Jackson T-shirt and I said no and then we had another fight about _that_. We only had four guests – Matthew, Francis, whom neither of us really wanted to invite but had to because we'd invited Matthew, Kiku and Herakles – and Herakles only got to come by default because he and Kiku had just gotten together. Herakles, incidentally, fell asleep during the ceremony but was kind enough to give us a cat as a wedding present – however, we left the cat with Francis when we went on our honeymoon and it allegedly got run over by a milk van. Yao was invited but he couldn't come so he sent us that stuffed panda with the creepy cross-eyed stare that gave you, in your exact words, "the heebie-jeebies" so we shoved it in the boot of the car after we got out of the church. We didn't book a reception venue and you wanted to go to McDonald's so you could get that awful quadruple-bacon-stack promotion thing they were running and I said I wasn't going to McDonald's on our wedding day and then we had a fight literally ten minutes after we'd gotten married. Francis finally did something useful and took us somewhere he knew of and it was actually very nice even though it was sort of awkward because no-one really knew what to say to Herakles and Kiku kept blushing and apologising, probably because he knew that _we_ all knew that Herakles was shagging him and that was really the only reason Herakles was even there. As for you and I on that front... well, we had that lovely honeymoon suite at the hotel we were staying at but we didn't actually have a proper wedding night because I got drunk and passed out and you put me to bed and watched _Ghostbusters II_ on television instead."

"That's very... accurate," Alfred said at length, slightly disappointed by how clinically Arthur had reeled it all off.

"Oh, those are the exact facts," Arthur sighed. "I remember it in more detail than that – fondly, I might add. It was a shambles, of course, but that's fairly typical of us, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Alfred agreed with a grin. "At least you enjoyed our honeymoon when you _finally_ stopped bitching about it."

"Well, a Disney film premiere is one thing – Disney_world_ quite another." Arthur actually shuddered. "God, all those awful rides and sugar-loaded snack foods and headbands with Mickey Mouse ears on them—"

"But we were in _the_ hotel," Alfred pointed out. "The proper main fairytale castle hotel – which, despite everything, you loved, even if you won't admit it."

"I have _real_ castles. Besides, the heat made me sick and the food made me even sicker. I had to stay in bed for almost two days and I kept throwing up."

"Yeah, I remember that," Alfred said thoughtfully. "You were completely sober for the whole honeymoon so the only thing I could think of was that I'd gotten you pregnant. I was _this_ close to calling Mattie up to tell him he was gonna be an uncle."

Arthur punched him on the arm.

"You're an idiot, Alfred."

"You always say that."

"That's because you always do idiotic things – or say them or think them."

"It's okay, though – you never stay mad at me even when I screw up really badly."

"Like when you called me Elvis," Arthur said blandly.

"Yeah." Alfred nodded. "Or—hey, remember that time way _waaaay_ back when I was trying to get you to call me 'Alfie' and I made that list of ways to butter you up and you completely flipped out and thought I was like employing top-secret Cold War-style mind manipulation techniques on you?" He gave a low whistle as he remembered it. "Man, I thought you were actually gonna dump me at one point! 'Cause I asked you to marry me for the first time ever and my timing was really bad, I guess, because you went crazy and then you started crying and said I was mocking you or something and I had to sleep in the guest bed that Gilbert broke and I had spasms in my back from it for like a month."

"I am never going to forget that, you moron." Arthur gave a deep sigh. "I was _very_ angry with you."

"Yeah, I noticed. All over that stupid little nickname, too." Alfred nuzzled against Arthur's neck. "Still, I've managed to get you to say it twice since then. Remember when you _finally_ said yes? It was at my birthday party – Fourth of July, 1993 – and I think you'd had a bit to drink, surprise surprise, but, hey, if it loosens your tongue, that's fine by me."

"I know you think I drink too much—"

"You _do_ drink too much – but that's not what I was talking about. Remember we climbed up to the roof to watch the fireworks going off all over the city? You were kind of sulky because you always are on Fourth of July and I guess that's fair enough but I remember thinking that it wasn't just me being free from being a colony – freedom was what we fought for together back in the Forties and it was like... like back when we won, you know? So while we were up there all on-top-of-the-world and stuff, I just thought I'd ask you again for like the millionth time, thinking you'd say no again like how you always did and... well, you didn't. You said "Yes, Alfie" without looking at me and held out your hand for me to put the ring on and that was that."

"Yes, you almost knocked me off the roof in your excitement," Arthur recalled dryly.

Alfred gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"No big deal, I caught you again, hero-style," he said. "Like Spiderman, right? Anyway, 1993 was a good year – we sorted everything out really quickly and got married within a few months, which was weird because it took you so freaking long to say yes, and you called me 'Alfie' again on our post-wedding-night-morning-thing, remember? So that's twice!"

He felt Arthur shift next to him.

"...Three times, actually," Arthur admitted finally.

Alfred blinked.

"Three...?" He shook his head. "No, it's only been two – I'd have remembered a third time, Artie!"

"You were asleep when I said it. It was after we had that big argument in 1954 – when I came back from the meeting and we patched things up."

"Did you know I was asleep?"

Arthur paused again.

"Yes."

"No fair!" Alfred seized Arthur in a vice-grip. "I wanna _hear_ it three times, meanie! Say it again now so I can have my legit three times!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Arthur retorted, wrestling with him in an attempt to get him off. "Alfred, let go of me at once!"

"Not until you say it!" Alfred wailed, clinging tighter still as Arthur kicked at him and clawed at his back. "_Saaaay iiiit_!"

"_Alfred_—Alfred, _stop_ it, we're going to—!"

They went tumbling off the bed in a tangled heap with a heavy _thud_; the moment they hit the floor, Lovino pounded furiously against the far wall.

"Will you two shut the fuck up? You're encouraging this bastard!" he screeched through the wall before going off into a stream of even-more-aggressive-sounding Spanish undoubtedly aimed at Antonio – then there was another _thud_ from their side of the wall and an angry wail of Italian.

"Elizaveta is having a rather serious nosebleed somewhere right now – and _not_ because Lovino just spoke three languages in less than ten seconds," Arthur sighed from where they had landed in a heap on the expensive carpet.

Alfred grinned down at him.

"Yeah," he agreed. "And I bet that old boss of yours would be pleased to see this, too."

"Churchill?" Arthur rolled his jade eyes. "Of course he would. He wouldn't stop giving me the approving-eyebrow-raise when you did something as simple as give me a pat on the shoulder when you passed me."

"I bet _he_ would have liked it if you had called me 'Alfie'," Alfred said, wriggling suggestively. "How about you do it right now and we'll wish it up to him?"

"No, Alfred." Arthur grinned at him. "I'm afraid it's just one of those twice-every-forty-years things."

"Thirty-nine," Alfred said, "and _lame_."

"You can't wait thirty-nine years?"

"Sure I can," Alfred retorted. "I don't wanna but I _can_. I can wait forever – like how I would have done if that's how long it had taken you to say yes. I asked you to wait for me so I could love you and you did, so... yeah, I can wait, Artie."

Arthur smiled at him.

"Then always hold out hope," he said, "and carry it aloft like Lady Liberty."

"Right," Alfred replied with a smirk, finally beginning to loosen his tie. "Just like in _Ghostbusters II_."

—

_Alfred woke at 6:47am to the sound of Arthur throwing up; he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, watching Arthur through the gap in the ajar bathroom door as he stumbled to the sink to wash out his mouth and brush his teeth. It was raining outside – Alfred could hear the pattering of it hard on the window even through the thick curtains and over the sound of Arthur trying to scrub the taste of acid and alcohol out of his mouth._

_When Arthur emerged a few minutes later, he looked a wreck; his gaze met Alfred's and he smiled weakly at him, leaning against the bathroom doorframe._

"_How do I look?" he asked, putting one hand on his hip._

_Alfred looked him up and down – at his white skin and the dark circles under his eyes and his wild hair and the crumpled shirt from his suit yesterday, Alfred having stripped him down to just that and his underwear before putting him to bed._

"_Hungover," Alfred said, squinting at him. He reached for his glasses and put them on so that he could see Arthur more clearly. "Yeah, hungover. Definitely hungover."_

"_That's how I feel," Arthur agreed, pushing off the doorframe and weaving his way back to the bed. "I suppose it serves me bleeding well right." He got back under the covers and draped himself over Alfred. "I'm sorry about last night. I got carried away. I know it wasn't much of a wedding night."_

"_Ah, it was okay," Alfred replied, patting Arthur's ring hand. "At least I got to carry you bridal style without you kicking and complaining."_

"_That's because I was unconscious, I expect."_

"_Yeah, you were. You went out cold in the elevator after I managed to drag you out of the bar."_

"_Ugh, I hardly remember a thing," Arthur moaned disgustedly. "I didn't do anything completely stupid, did I? I apologise if I was a royal prick at any point."_

"_Nah, you were kinda cute, actually. I found you with that other wedding party and when I came over to get you, you started hugging me and telling everyone that we'd gotten married that day too and you showed the bride our rings."_

"_That doesn't sound like me."_

"_Well, you were drunk. You know, it's the weirdest thing but you seem to attract ladies when you've had a drink or two; you were cosied up between two chubby single thirty-somethings when I found you. They kept going on about how sexy your accent was and I basically had to pry you away from them. God, the looks on their faces were priceless when you starting hanging off me and going on about how we had gotten married that morning."_

_Arthur pulled a face._

"_That __**really**__ doesn't sound like me."_

_Alfred shrugged._

"_I guess it's 'cause you're nicer when you're drunk," he suggested. "Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes you're a royal prick." He turned over and pulled Arthur more comfortably against his chest. "Anyway, I got you out of the bar and into the elevator but then you passed out so I had to carry you back to the room. It didn't look like you were going to wake up so I just undressed you and put you to bed and then I watched TV. _Ghostbusters II_ was on."_

"_Is that that ridiculous film in which the Statue of Liberty walks through New York City with the four idiotic heroes riding in her crown?"_

"_Yeah. I like that bit – it's awesome." Alfred kissed the top of Arthur's head. "Anyway, you were out for the count but I held your hand while I was watching the movie so... well, I guess it was a pretty lame wedding night but sort of..."_

"_Fitting?" Arthur gave a weak little laugh. "We never get these romantic things right, do we?"_

"_Well, no, but to be honest," Alfred said, "if the earth had moved the first time we did it, I'd totally have thought Ludwig was bombing us."_

"_I'm surprised he didn't – he's always had horrible timing. __**That**__ and the fact that he's not exactly the most romantic person in the world himself – I remain astounded that attention-span-of-a-gnat Feliciano has stayed with him this long – means that I wouldn't have put it past him to unwittingly completely ruin someone else's romantic moment."_

"_If you could call it that."_

"_Mm. That old officer's barrack wasn't the most romantic lovenest in the world, was it?" Arthur glanced around at the beautiful décor of the Honeymoon Suite. "And of course we completely wasted __**this**__."_

"_Well..." Alfred nudged up against him suggestively. "We don't have to be out of here until noon..."_

"_No," Arthur groaned, burying his face in Alfred's shoulder. "I'm hungover. I have a splitting headache."_

"_Sex is good for a headache."_

"_No it isn't. You just made that up."_

"_No, it really is! All those dolphins that get released make the pain go away!"_

_Arthur shot him a very odd look._

"_...You mean __**endorphins**__, don't you?" he corrected after a lengthy pause. _

"_Yeah, those, whatever." Alfred put his arms around Arthur properly, wrapping him up in his grasp. "Come on, baby," he murmured, nibbling at Arthur's ear. "You kinda owe me a wedding night – and it'll make you feel better, I promise."_

_Arthur tried to squirm away as Alfred started to kiss down his neck; Alfred clung tight to him, loosening a few buttons on his wrinkled shirt and smiling against his throat as he felt his hostile struggling begin to lose momentum._

"_Alright, alright," Arthur grumbled as Alfred licked at his shoulder. "But if I throw up on you... well, I'm not taking responsibility. You were warned." _

"_It's been noted down." _

_Alfred rolled over and pinned Arthur to the mattress, kissing him all over – on his forehead and his nose and his neck and his collarbone and his chest, saving his mouth for last so that Arthur wanted it and didn't pull away to be antagonistic. Arthur arched upwards into it and opened his bare legs very wide to give Alfred as much room as he wanted, a silent sign that he wasn't going to fuss anymore; still kissing him, Alfred got the last few of his shirt buttons undone and laid it open, trailing his hand down over Arthur's chest and belly, circling his navel with his forefinger as he finally broke the kiss and smiled at him._

_Arthur shot him a crooked smile back, putting his arms up on the pillow either side of his head and twisting a little beneath Alfred, his green eyes very dark – striking a pose a little bit like a model._

"_This is our wedding night," he said. "More or less, anyway. You're supposed to tell me how beautiful I look, how radiant and perfect I am, as you carefully unfasten every tiny pearl button and slip off my lacy little garter-belt."_

_Alfred laughed. _

"_You're hungover and wearing yesterday's shirt because you slept in it," he said. "You look a complete mess, Artie. To be honest, it's kind of a different look for you." _

_Arthur laughed too and reached up towards Alfred's face, rubbing his thumb over his chin._

"_You need to shave," he replied, "and shower and clean your glasses – but that's hardly anything new."_

_Alfred smirked._

"_Oh yeah? Well, you're a cantankerous old grouch."_

"_That's fine – you're a spoilt little brat." Arthur held up his other hand to look at his brand new wedding ring. "And we're an awful match."_

_Alfred took his hand and kissed his ring._

"_I wouldn't have it any other way," he said. "I've loved you since... well, since forever – and that's never gonna change, Artie, no matter how much we fight over stupid little things. That's ordinary for us and that's... that's how I like it."_

_He leaned down for another real kiss – Arthur seemed happy enough to accommodate his desire, encircling his arms around his neck. Alfred felt Arthur's thighs bump against his hips as his legs wrapped around him too and then slipped down through his own, becoming intertwined; and for a long moment it was just them and the warmth of the bridal bed and the hush of the rain at the window._

"_Still got a headache?" Alfred whispered teasingly as he pulled away._

"_Yes," Arthur murmured with a sigh. "It's also known as the idiot I married yesterday."_

"_Hey, that's not very nice," Alfred whined, biting at Arthur's bottom lip. "Well, whatever – you love me anyway, right?"_

_Arthur found his hand and linked his own with it, twisting their fingers together, rings glinting in the cold grey ordinary light of morning – and but for those rings it could have been any morning, any day, any year._

"_Always, Alfie."_

'As I looked up into those eyes

His vision borrows mine—

And I know he's no stranger

For I feel I've held him for all of time'

– Vanessa Carlton, _Ordinary Day

* * *

_

**Amaranthine **comes from the flower amaranth, known for its long life and associated with immortality and undying love.

So that's that! Not many _too_ historical notes for this chapter given that it's set more-or-less in modern day.

**That Dutch guy **would be Holland/the Netherlands. This is hardly news but New York was New Amsterdam until the British kicked the Dutch out; in fact, "Yankees" is Dutch. The British and French settlers used to make fun of the Dutch settlers by calling them 'John Cheese' (because that seemed to be all they made) and the Dutch for John Cheese is 'Jan Kees', pronounced 'yankees'. ^^ Poor Holland is referred to as "that Dutch guy" by Alfred because I made a point of having the nations refer to each other by their human names in this fic but Holland doesn't have one and it would have been weird for Alfred to have just randomly called him "Holland" so... instead he just forgot his name. Which is probably even worse but oh well.

**The Eurovision Song Contest **is not necessarily a fix but we in the UK don't do very well very often. It's a vicious circle where we're sort of snooty and stuck-up and don't really care if we win anyway so we don't put in a lot of effort so our entry sucks so nobody votes for it so we don't win so we say we don't care anyway so we don't put in a lot of effort and so forth. This might be because France invented the ESC back in 1956. You're not allowed to vote for your own country, presumably to stop Russia from winning every year because it has the most citizens – but countries with political ties or alliances are known for forming cliques and voting for each other/not voting for certain countries. France and Britain rarely vote for each other and also the Republic of Ireland _never_ votes for us, surprise surprise. Alfred is exaggerating when he says that Arthur hasn't won for twenty years – we actually came First in 1997 but before that the last time we won was in 1981. It may interest you to know that this year, 2010, we finished in last place. Oh well. We don't care anyway, you cliquey continent bastards. XD

As before, same-sex couples couldn't get married/enter into a civil partnership in 1993. I am aware of this – just not tolerant of it, haha.

According to several recent scientific studies, sex _is_ actually a good cure for a headache. The endorphins (not dolphins!) that are released during the act help to combat the pain, rendering the age-old excuse of "Not tonight, dear, I have a headache" entirely void!

Lastly... **why** is the United States so advanced with everything, having invented the aeroplane, the home computer system and the iPod/iPhone/iPad/iLives-your-entire-life-for-you-device and yet it hasn't caught up with the idea of electric kettles? It absolutely _baffles_ me that no American that _I_ have ever met, at least, has an electric kettle and, when they want to make tea or boil water, they do it on the hob with a flipping metal kettle that _whistles_. That is _so_ unbelievably old-fashioned for such an advanced country. o.O This is basically me whining about the fact that _I_ had to make tea using a coffee-maker in an American hotel room because there wasn't an electric kettle but seriously, it's weird. You guys! Get with the programme! Buy electric kettles! They're useful for things other than making tea (like making instant ramen) – I gave mine to my suite-mate when I left the USA and she practically bit my arm off for it...

I believe that is it. Ladies and gentlemen, it has been a delight. Thanks for keeping with me on this and I am very glad to hear that all of you (so far) have very much enjoyed this story! I hope you liked the epilogue just as much! =)

Alfred finally got what he wanted. Points for persistence, hero! Even though Arthur is as grouchy as always – well, as with a lot of the humour in _Hetalia_, it's funny 'cause it's true. Sometimes Arthur is saddeningly accurate... XP

RobinRocks

xXx

P.S: How epic is it that double-barrel is a double-barrel word?


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